


Sherlock & The Copper Beeches

by Soledad



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain Watson To The Rescue, Gen, Not Every Woman Is A Damsel In Distress, War Heroes Are Hard To Work For, story rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-06 01:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8730061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: A modern retelling of the classic ACD story, with a twist. Set in the same ‘verse as “Sherlock & the Illustrious Client”. Time: between “The Great Game” and “A Scandal in Belgravia.”





	1. E-mail For You

**Author's Note:**

> I use some dialogue from the episodes “A Scandal in Belgravia” and “The Sign of Three”, although in a different context, as well as a few lines from John Watson’s (fictional) blog.  
> Beta read by the generous englishtutor, whom I owe my gratitude. All remaining mistakes are mine, due to my pig-headedness. Sorry!

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 01 – E-MAIL FOR YOU**

After the almost-deadly encounter with Moriarty, which John mentally called “that disaster at the pool”, life became strangely uneventful at 221 Baker Street. Lestrade seemed to avoid them – in fact, he only occasionally called to ask how they were doing – which meant no police cases for Sherlock. Even private clients became rare and spectacularly uninteresting.

John suspected Mycroft’s hand behind such an unexpected turn of events – not that he minded it, for a change. He had bruised a couple of ribs in that bloody explosion and even breathing still hurt. He managed to work the occasional shift at the surgery, so that they would keep him, but even that cost him considerable effort.

So yeah, a little bit of peace and quiet was mightily welcome. So was Mrs Hudson spoiling them like a doting mother hen.

Sherlock, of course, saw things differently. _He_ was hideously bored, despite the fact that his dislocated shoulder was still in a sling and caused him nearly constant pain. Which made him irritated way beyond the usual levels; more so as he stubbornly refused to take any painkillers, not wanting to risk another kind of addiction.

He had not yet reached the stage where he would shoot the walls in sheer frustration but he was close to it. Dangerously close.

“Why don’t you look out of the window and deduce the people who walk by?” John suggested, typing away on his laptop with both index fingers and with some difficulty. 

He had wrenched his injured shoulder in the explosion badly, and while it was healing up well enough, typing was still one of the (many) activities that hurt.

“Boring!” Sherlock stepped over the coffee table – literally – and walked up to where John was working on his laptop. He leaned over John’s shoulder to get a better look at the screen. “ _The Great Game_? What’s that?”

John rolled his eyes but kept typing. “It’s the _title_ , genius!”

“What does it need a title for?” Sherlock asked in honest surprise.

John smiled tightly. “So that people would know which one of our cases I am talking about?” he explained with forced patience.

Sherlock ate the piece of toast he was holding in two bites.

“Do people actually _read_ your blog?” he asked doubtfully.

“Where do you think our clients come from?” John asked back.

“I have a website,” Sherlock pointed out indignantly.

“In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash,” John retorted. “Nobody’s reading your website.”

“What _I do_ is exact science and should be treated as such,” Sherlock replied stiffly. “You make our cases seem like some kind of romantic adventure. You should be focusing on my analytical reasoning and nothing else.”

“So that nobody would read _my_ blog, either?” John returned without missing a beat. “No, thanks. In case you haven’t _observed_ ,” he emphasized Sherlock’s favourite word with heavy sarcasm, “they actually _like_ it when I splash a little colour on the bare facts.”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

John ignored him, saved the blog entry and hit ‘Post’. Then he clambered to his feet and went into the kitchen that was, for once, free of any experiments.

“Tea?” he asked, switching on the kettle without waiting for an answer.

As expected, he didn’t get one. Unless a disgusted grunt counted.

“Do you know a woman named Wanda Hunter?” Sherlock asked instead.

John shook his head. “Never heard of her.”

“She must know you, though,” Sherlock said. “Why else would she send you an e-mail?”

John hobbled back into the living room – his leg had been acting up since the explosion, too, and wasn’t that a joy? – his face dark like a thunderstorm.

“Have you been into my private correspondence again?” he snapped. “Sherlock, how often have we already talked about personal boundaries?”

Sherlock waved off his angry demands nonchalantly.

“Dull,” he declared. “Besides, she only wrote you because she wants to consult _me_.”

“And you’ve come to that brilliant conclusion… how exactly?” John asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Sherlock turned around the laptop so that he could see the opened letter on the screen. “See for yourself.”

John leaned closer to read the letter. It was short and to the point, dated from twenty minutes earlier.

 

_Dear Dr Watson,_

_I would be grateful if you could arrange a meeting between me and your detective friend, Mr Holmes. I have been offered a promising job, but the conditions are unusual, to say the least, and I would like to hear his opinion before I accept or reject it._

_You can ask my previous employer about my credibility or you can reach me on my phone._

_Yours sincerely,  
Wanda Hunter_

 

“That’s what I’ve come to,” Sherlock complained, unabashedly wallowing in self-pity and enjoying every second of it. “Giving employment advice to random women. It is pathetic, really.”

John ignored the Holmesian melodrama with practiced ease.

“Not just any random woman,” he eyed the address on the bottom of the letter with a frown.

Sherlock tried to veil his sudden curiosity – and failed. “So you do know her, after all?”

“No, I don’t,” John replied. “But I do know her previous employer. He was my commanding officer in Afghanistan. If _he_ vouches for her, then she’s okay.”

“Oh!” Sherlock said in a tone that from a lesser being would have dangerously close to jealousy.

Not from a Holmes, of course. Holmeses didn’t _do_ jealousy.

“You respect him very much,” he deduced instead.

John chose to ignore the slightly whiny undertone in his best friend’s voice. “Yeah, I do.”

“But obviously not enough to stay in touch with him,” Sherlock commented with a predatory glance.

There was some secret behind this and he felt honour-bound to unravel it. John was not supposed to keep secrets from him!

“What?” John, trying to google Miss Wanda Hunter and coming up with nothing useful, was barely listening to him.

“Oh, nothing,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. “I was just wondering why don’t you see him anymore.”

“Who?” John asked distractedly, widening the search radius with the help of keywords like _nurse, personal assistant, driver_ and _housekeeper_ – functions that would be needed around a man of Major Sholto’s condition.

And _bodyguard_ , of course.

“Your previous commander,” Sherlock answered, getting a little impatient with him.

John raised an eyebrow.

“ _Previous commander_?” he repeated, with a warning edge in his voice.

Sherlock, realizing he’d made a mistake, although he couldn’t really guess what it had been, closed his eyes briefly. “I meant _ex_ -commander.”

“Right,” John said. “’Cause _previous_ suggests that I currently _have_ a commander.”

“Which you don’t,” Sherlock said, starting to catch his drift.

“Which I don’t,” John agreed, again with that warning undertone.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. “’Course you don’t,” then he switched to analytical mode again. “He was decorated, wasn’t he? A war hero?”

There was no way that John would respect somebody this much otherwise.

“Not to everyone,” John replied grimly. “Some see in him nothing but a monster.”

“Really? “Sherlock was surprised. “What for?”

“John sighed. “It was a tragic event. He led a team of crows into battle…”

“ _Crows_?” Sherlock echoed, frowning.

“New recruits,” John explained. “It’s standard procedure to break the new boys in: under the tutelage of an experienced officer. But in this case everything went wrong. They all died; he was the only survivor.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding. That had indeed been tragic. Small wonder that not everyone saw a hero in Major Sholto.

“The press and the families gave him hell,” John continued. “He gets more death threats than _you_.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” said Sherlock primly.

John grinned and shook his head. “You just can’t bear being seconded by anyone, can you? Why have you suddenly such an interest in another human being anyway?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was wondering why the two of you lost contact, is all. I still am. Seeing how highly you think of him…”

“Well, he’s almost a recluse,” John replied with a shrug of his own. “Lives in solitude in the middle of nowhere, hardly ever leaves the house, accepts no visitors. In a way it’s understandable, considering the crippling injuries he’s suffered and all the hostility he’s had to face ever since. Still, he’s the most unsociable man I’ve ever met.”

“ _He_ is?” echoed Sherlock indignantly. “ _He_ ’s the most unsociable man?”

The question _What about me?_ hung between them in the air unasked. John grinned at him.

“You’re not unsociable, Sherlock; on the contrary. You’re such a prima donna that you’d die without a proper audience.”

“There’s that,” Sherlock admitted in a sudden attack of honesty; then he added thoughtfully. “I wonder why Miss Hunter chose to leave his employment.”

“Well, there’s one way to find out,” John pointed out reasonably. “You take the case, you’ll learn all the details.”

“I think I will,” Sherlock decided. “It’s not even a two, granted, but with Mycroft bullying Lestrade into not giving me any cases, I can use any distraction I can get.”

John shook his head in tolerant amusement. “You think Mycroft has forbidden Lestrade to give you any cases?”

Sherlock gave him a look that expressed without any doubt that John’s reputation (such as it had been to begin with) had just plummeted down several notches in his eyes.

“Really, John, you don’t think that the idiots at New Scotland Yard have suddenly learned how to do their jobs, do you? Clearly, Mycroft has been meddling with my life again. That’s what Mycroft _does_.”

There was an undeniable truth in that statement. In his subtle and scheming way Mycroft Holmes, the shadow lord behind the British Government, cared for his little brother more than anyone would have thought, no matter what he might have said about caring in general. It was well within his powers to order Lestrade to back off and leave Sherlock alone; and he would not hesitate to do so if he thought it necessary, regardless of Sherlock’s wishes.

John knew this as well as Sherlock. Therefore he saw no reason to argue.

“So, do you want me to arrange a meeting with the lady?” he asked instead.

“Hardly a lady, if she used to work for an embittered war hero living in the middle of nowhere,” replied Sherlock with a grimace. “But by all means, let her come here tomorrow morning. I’m sure the _unusual conditions_ she mentioned will turn out deadly dull once approached with the right analytical method, but perhaps she’ll take a liking to you. She’d be doubtlessly an improvement to your current girlfriend. _Anyone_ would.”

John shook his head tolerantly and sent an e-mail to Miss Hunter, asking her to visit them at 221B Baker Street at ten-thirty on the following day. He could not deny that he was curious about this woman who who’d managed to hold out in the employ of the misanthropic Major Sholto, at least for a while… and what sort of _unusual conditions_ had made her hesitant to take a promising new job.

He was definitely looking forward to meeting her – and decidedly _not_ for the reasons Sherlock had implied. He was fairly content with his current girlfriend (whom Sherlock just called “the boring teacher”), thank you very much. If only Sherlock would leave them alone long enough to actually make it work!


	2. The Ambitious Miss Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original ACD short story Miss Hunter’s first name was Violet. However, I’ve already used that name in “Sherlock & the Illustrious Client”, so I renamed the lady who, by the way, is “played” by Catherine Tate. *g*  
> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story. Beta read by the generous englishtutor, whom I owe my gratitude. All remaining mistakes are mine, due to my pig-headedness.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 02 – THE AMBITIOUS MISS HUNTER**

John didn’t have to work at the surgery the next day, so he decided to have a lie-in, taking advantage of the fact that Sherlock still wasn’t able to play the violin in the grey hours of the morning… or at any other.

Of course, there was always the chance that the bored genius would blow up the flat – or at least the kitchen – in the middle of the night, but it was a small chance. Sherlock, too, was still weakened by his injuries and actually slept through most nights… even if he adamantly denied it every time it came up.

Therefore John managed to sleep undisturbed till 8 am which, in military terms, was fairly late. As a rule, he usually woke up at 5 am every day, Army reflexes still firmly in place, even after more than a year. He splashed some cold water onto his face and went to the kitchen to make tea and prepare toast for breakfast.

As the positive result of their injuries, he found no body parts in the fridge, and even the kitchen table was reasonably clean. He briefly contemplated the rare chance of actually having a proper breakfast at said table when Sherlock all but sleep-walked into the kitchen, made a beeline for the cupboard and took a tin box from the highest shelf. 

John could have sworn that the box hadn’t been there on the previous night. Nevertheless it was there _now_ and turned out to contain home-made oatcakes, courtesy of Mrs Hudson.

Such was life at 221B Baker Street.

“Where have those come from?” John asked, snatching one while Sherlock was unceremoniously dumping the rest of them onto the first tray he could find. 

Accidentally, it was the one belonging to their tea service; one that had miraculously survived Sherlock’s boredom-induced violent outbursts. John could never decide whether it was sheer dumb luck or the fact that the tea service was one of the very few things of actual value he’d taken out of storage after moving in with the consulting madman – a family heirloom that Harry hadn’t wanted. 

Sometimes even Sherlock knew better than destroy things that could not be replaced. Even if he huffed at the sentiment involved. _Sometimes_.

“Mrs Hudson baked them last night and left the tin on the landing for us,” Sherlock replied, snatching one, too, to nibble on, which was his idea of a proper breakfast. “Obviously.”

John said nothing, just looked at him and waited.

“I might have mentioned that we’re expecting a client today,” Sherlock finally admitted, without the slightest sign of regret. “A female one. One who might appreciate home-made biscuits for her tea.”

John shook his head, torn between amusement and exasperation.

“Sherlock, you shouldn’t manipulate her into baking us biscuits every time your sweet tooth manifests itself! She’s elderly, she’s got a bad hip and, as she’s repeatedly told us, she’s our landlady, not our housekeeper.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock waved off his protests. “She loves doing it for us.”

“She loves _you_ like the son she never had,” John corrected. “And he likes me by default ‘cause we get on well enough. You still shouldn’t take advantage of her like this, though.”

“Not good?” Sherlock asked, now with a hint of uncertainty.

“Bit not good, yeah,” John started steeping the tea. “Try not to do it too often. But since the things are already here and they are excellent as always, it would be stupid not to take a generous sample, don’t you think? Quality control and all that. After all, we’re expecting a visitor.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Therefore, instead of the bacon and scrambled eggs John had considered having earlier, they had oatcakes, toast and jam with their tea for breakfast, and then just sat in the living room in companionable silence, waiting for their prospective client.

It was a cold morning of the early spring; a thick fog rolled down between the lines of the neighbouring houses, and the opposing windows appeared as little more than shapeless blurs. John amused himself with reading the morning papers, while Sherlock retreated to his Mind Palace, pale and still and motionless – and mysterious like a sphinx. 

He remained in that position for almost an hour; then he came back to the world of the living abruptly.

“John, what time did you tell Miss Hunter to come?”

“Half past ten,” John replied absent-mindedly; then he looked at the clock, startled. “It _is_ half past ten now.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said calmly. “And I have no doubt that is her ring.”

Somebody had just rung indeed and John, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t bother to move, suppressed a sigh and hobbled down at least to the landing to spare Mrs Hudson, who had already opened the door, the necessity of climbing the second flight of stairs.

“Boys!” their long-suffering landlady called up. “A visitor for you!”

“We know, Mrs Hudson,” John called back. “Would you send the young lady right up? I’ll meet her halfway.”

He unabashedly listened to Mrs Hudson’s apologies on their behalf; she was telling the visitor that they had both been recently injured and thus still didn’t move around as easily as was their wont. Miss Hunter – for who else could she have been? – answered their landlady that she did not mind climbing the stairs on her own… and then she came up briskly indeed.

She turned out to be older than John had expected after the e-mail – in her late thirties perhaps, or even forty already –, a vivacious redhead with a bright, freckled face and with the competent, no-nonsense manner of a woman who has had her own way to make in the world.

A head taller than John (there went Sherlock’s idea of a more suitable girlfriend), she was plainly but neatly clothed, in a charcoal-grey pencil skirt with a matching jacket and a dark red blouse underneath; and she was wearing sensible, low-heeled shoes.

Her brisk manner also suggested that she was a person who would be quite… _loud_ by nature, and John had a hard time imagining her and Major Sholto living under the same roof without killing each other. Yet, obviously, they had managed to do so – at least for a while. John decided to be nice, if only for the major’s sake.

“Miss Hunter, I presume,” he said in his best bedside manner and stretched out his hand in greeting. “I’m John Watson; please, come with me.”

What he also hadn’t expected was the surprisingly strong grip of the woman… and the almost predatory glance with which she measured him from head to toe. Frankly, it made him feel like a slab of meat on the butcher’s table. Her first words were, however, a lot more subdued.

“Thanks for putting in a good word for me,” she said. “I hope you’ll excuse my troubling you; but I’ve had a very strange experience, and I didn’t want to discuss it with either my mother or my grandfather.”

“Why not?” John asked, while steering her in the direction of the living room. Until now, he had thought that she perhaps didn’t have any family to whom to turn and had called upon Sherlock for that reason.

“They always think the worst of everything,” she explained with a grimace. “Grandpa is worrying about me constantly, and my mother is such a drama queen it isn’t even funny. I don’t have the nerves for her antics.”

 _She_ certainly didn’t make the impression of a drama queen; John would have been hard-pressed to find a more determined and down-to-earth woman in London. Although, of course, first impressions could be misleading. Perhaps she was just hiding it better.

“So I thought that Mr Holmes, who seems to be able to tell an impostor from the true item by a single glance, might be able to tell me what I should do.”

“He will, assuming you can provide him with enough data,” John promised, shepherding her up the last couple of stairs and into the living room. Then he opened the door and called in. “Sherlock, Miss Hunter is here!”

Sherlock rose from his armchair in the graceful, boneless manner of a cat and looked their visitor over in his customary, searching fashion. John could almost see the imaginary cogwheels turn in his head and only hoped Miss Hunter would take no offence upon having been stared at.

He had obviously underestimated her, though, because she stared back at Sherlock in almost the same manner: with unabashed interest, yet also with slight disappointment.

“You’re not as tall as on your pictures,” she said almost accusingly, and John fought very hard to suppress a grin.

“I usually take advantage of a good coat and a short friend,” Sherlock returned flatly. “But that’s hardly of any importance right now. Take a seat and tell your story; don’t be boring!”

“Ignore him; he’s always rude to everyone,” John said apologetically, offering their client his own armchair. “Tea?”

“That would be lovely, thanks,” Miss Hunter replied gratefully. “And don’t worry about rude, sweetheart. I used to work for your ex-commanding officer. That gave me the chance to grow a really thick hide.”

John nodded in understanding. Major James Sholto had always been a gruff, taciturn man, and the hostility he’d had to face since his return didn’t make him any easier to live with. Sherlock, however, shot him an affronted look; something he was very good at.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, I’m not rude,” he exclaimed haughtily. “I’m _bored_ ; and I don’t see why I should put up with even more boredom.”

John ignored his antics with practiced ease.

“So, Miss Hunter, why don’t you tell us your problem?” he asked, pouring tea in all three cups. “Milk, sugar?”

“Black, please,” she replied with the martyred air of a no-longer-very-young woman who actually _liked_ things sweet but had to watch her figure.

For a few moments, they drank their tea in silence. Then Miss Hunter launched into her story with an enthusiasm that seemed to be her customary approach to all things in life.

“Well, I find myself in a bit of a pickle,” she began. “As you know, I’ve worked for Major James Sholto as his personal assistant for almost two years by now. I took care of his correspondence – such as it was; he doesn’t exactly keep up much contact with the rest of the world – filtered out the hate mail and the death threats, refused each and every invitation to military and social events in his name, kept his books, saw that his other employees got their salary, paid all the bills…”

“Yes, yes, tedious,” Sherlock interrupted. “Does it have anything to do with why you’ve come to us?”

“Indirectly,” she replied, completely unfazed by his manners… or rather the lack thereof. “I wanted to make you understand why did I leave his employment… despite the handsome salary I received there.”

“I can guess,” John smiled.

And indeed, he could. Wanda Hunter was a woman who clearly _enjoyed_ life, every aspect of it. Being buried with Major Sholto somewhere in the arse-end of the world, as the Germans would say, must have been suffocating for her.

“You were lonely, weren’t you?” he asked kindly.

She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, there was the housekeeper, of course, and the nurse, the driver and the bodyguard, and the physical therapist came three times a week, but other than that… The house is in the middle of nowhere and nothing ever happens there. Quite frankly, I was bored out of my head. Granted, I’m not sixteen anymore, but that doesn’t mean I would want to be buried alive… and with half a dozen other women at that, each and every one of them single.”

Clearly, Miss Hunter had not yet given up the hope to find a suitable husband one day.

“The Major has _bodyguards_?” John asked in surprise; that was a detail ha hadn’t known.

Miss Hunter shrugged. “Well, he can’t properly use his dominant hand; and he still gets dozens of death threats every week. It’s only sensible.”

“Yes, yes, how very practical-minded of him,” Sherlock interrupted again with growing impatience. “It still doesn’t explain why you’re here. So drop the mindless babble and cut to the core of things, would you?”

“Sherlock, manners!” John warned his friend. 

He thought that Miss Hunter deserved a modicum of respect, if only because she’d held out with Major Sholto for almost two years. He knew from first-hand experience that a disgruntled James Sholto was not easy to bear.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” she waved off his concern. “Mr Holmes is right, unfortunately: I do babble a lot… now that I’ve got people around me to actually talk to…”

“So, you left Major Sholto’s employment,” John tried to move the story forward without offending her. _That_ was Sherlock’s job. “When exactly?”

“Five weeks ago,” she replied promptly. "Of course, I started looking for a new job right away. But you know how narrow the job market is at the moment. I advertised and read advertisements in every paper I could get my hand on, not to mention the Internet, but without success. At last the little money that I’d saved begun to run short, and I was at my wits’ end as to what I should do.”

“Why didn’t you try your luck with an agency?” John asked in sympathetic understanding. The pains of job-hunting were well-known to him, unfortunately.

“Oh, I did!” Miss Hunter assured him. “There’s a well-known agency for temp workers in the West End, called _Westerway’s_ , and there I used to call about once a week in order to see whether anything had turned up that might suit me.”

“Sounds like a demotion: from the personal assistant of a war hero to a common temp,” Sherlock commented with his usual tactlessness.

Miss Hunter shrugged. “In these days, Mr Holmes, one has to take whatever job one can get. And I used to be the best temp in Chiswick; I write two hundred words per minute, so I was hoping to find a job in that line of work.”

“Did you?” John asked quietly. She nodded.

“I was offered one; but under such odd conditions that at first I wasn’t really sure I should take it, despite the offered salary, which was tempting. _Very_ tempting. As was the chance to work for Jeff Rucastle.”

The name rang a bell with John immediately.

“You mean the war-zone journalist and star photographer?” he asked in surprise.

Miss Hunter nodded again. “The one and only, yeah.”

Sherlock, on the other hand, stared at them with a blank expression.

“The one and only _what_?” he asked in confusion.

John rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised? Well, the short version is: Jeff Rucastle is an expatriate American journalist and photographer of Scottish origins, who’s moved back to the UK a few years ago. He’s a freelancer who sent reports from the worst war zones in Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan and countless other places, too. He also sent back dramatic and moving photos of the highest quality, too. He’s known to be reckless, even ruthless in following his goals, but he always treated both soldiers and war victims with respect… a rare feat among the vultures who make a living out of the suffering of others.”

“You know him?” Miss Hunter asked in surprise.

“I’m an ex-Army doctor who served several tours in Afghanistan,” John explained. “I met him a few times in Kandahar and other places. He interviewed a few guys from my unit; even went out with us a couple of times on missions. I seriously doubt that he would remember me, though. He’s met hundreds of soldiers in dozens of war zones; and I was nothing special.”

“A journalist with a working moral compass,” Sherlock mused. “Who would have thought that a marvel like that would actually exist?”

“Not everyone writes for the tabloids,” John pointed out. “Some journalists are said to be interested in the truth.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Sure, John, if you say so,” then he turned to their client. “So, if Mr Rucastle is such a paragon of virtue, and if he offers such a handsome salary, why were you hesitating to take the job?”

“I’m not sure,” Miss Hunter admitted. “I’ve got the uncomfortable feeling that something is fishy about this job.”

“What makes you think so?” John asked, while Sherlock was rolling his eyed dramatically.

“Mr Rucastle asked me to do… odd things, should I choose to take the job,” she answered slowly.

“Morally questionable things?” John pressed on.

She shook her head. “No, just really odd ones.”

“It would help if you could explain what exactly counts as _odd_ in your opinion,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Perhaps it would be best if you told us everything about your encounter with Mr Rucastle,” John suggested. “We’ll be able to understand better what was… _odd_ in his offer.”

“Oh, I can certainly do that!” Miss Hunter took a deep breath and started with the dramatic account of the most recent events in her life.


	3. Indecent Proposal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The village Otterbourne as the possible location for Mr Rucastle’s home was suggested in the explanatory notes of “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes”, by Oxford World’s Classics, reissued in 2008.   
> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story. Brownie points for those who can guess which actors/actresses were cast to ‘play’ Miss Stoper and Mr Rucastle.  
> Beta read by the most generous englishtutor, whom I owe my gratitude.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 03 – INDECENT PROPOSAL?**

_Westerway’s_ was an old and respected agency that could count its existence back to the 19th century. Westerway was the name of the founder, who had originally started the agency for governesses who’d _found themselves without a ‘situation’_ , as it was called in those days. 

It had changed its owner and its profile several times in the many years since then, but never its name and location; and it still was counted every bit as reliable as at the beginning.

Currently, the business was managed by Miss Stoper, an almost frighteningly obese woman in her mid-forties, with a strong preference for fake curls, overdone make-up and loud colours that nearly made the eyes of the beholder bleed. As a rule, she sat in her own little office like an enormous, female Buddha (or a beached whale), and had the women, who were seeking employment and waited in the anteroom, shown in one by one by an exhausted, middle-aged secretary. Miss Stoper then would consult her computer and see whether she had anything that would suit them.

When Wanda Hunter called for the fifth time in as many weeks, she was shown into the little office as usual, but she found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A tall, broad-chested man with a boyishly handsome face, a cleft chin and very bright, very blue eyes sat in the chair on the clients’ side of Miss Stoper’s desk, leafing through a folder that she had obviously given him shortly before. He stood out of the garish little room like a sore thumb – but Wanda was fairly sure he would stand out of just any surroundings.

Quite frankly, he was the best-looking man she’d seen in her entire life. _Ever_. He looked like an escort… or a film star.

In fact, he had a vague likeness to that arrogant little American actor, Tom Cruise… only that _this_ man was easily six feet tall and had the breadth to fill out his casual yet clearly expensive clothes very well. Wanda could never afford designer clothes, but she recognized them when she saw them. 

The man’s brown hair, too, was fashionably cut and coiffed – doubtlessly by a professional hairdresser. This was someone well aware of the advantage his good looks provided him with; and someone who wouldn’t hesitate to use that advantage, either.

What was he looking for in Miss Stoper’s modest (though respectable) little business was beyond Wanda’s understanding.

When she entered the office, however, the man gave her a thorough once-over – a look that felt as if it had gone through flesh and bone – then he turned to Miss Stoper with a wide, white smile that revealed more blinding white teeth than any man should have legally been allowed to own.

“That will do,” he said. “I couldn’t ask for anything better.”

He seemed quite enthusiastic; he even rubbed his hands together in deep satisfaction, making the impression of a little boy in a candy shop. It was a pleasure to look at him, so infectious was his smile and the way he seemed comfortable with himself and with the world in general.

Still, he had talked as if Wanda had been a _thing_ and not a person, and _that_ was something she did _not_ suffer gladly. Nonetheless, she decided to give the bloke the benefit of the doubt. She could not afford to reject a prospective employer out of hand.

The man must have guessed what was going through her mind – she had been cursed with an open face all her life – because for a moment there was genuine amusement in those incredibly blue eyes of his.

“I understand that you’re looking for a job, Miss?” he asked.

Wanda _hated_ being called ‘Miss’. She was decidedly too old for that; besides, she found it condescending, especially coming from someone near her own age. It sounded as if they’d wanted to remind her that she still hadn’t managed to find a husband and looked down their noses at her for the failure.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers, thus she gritted her teeth and answered with a simple “Yes, sir.”

“As a temp worker?” the man continued, taking another look at her clothes that were, indeed, solidly elegant enough for a chief secretary of a respectable business, even though they came straight from _Marks & Spencer_.

“Well, I worked as a personal assistant in the last two years, but temp work will do for the moment,” she replied frankly. “I need the money, to be perfectly honest.”

“I see,” the man said. “And what salary do you ask?”

Emboldened and just a little desperate, she named the sums he had earned as Major Sholto’s personal assistant, which hadn’t been particularly high but still better than anyone could have hoped to get as a mere temp. If he man found the demand outrageous, so be it; she wasn’t going to sell herself cheap.

The man didn’t seem to be startled by her boldness. He just smiled that wide, white smile of his that somehow didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You are fairly sure about your accomplishments,” he said, clearly amused. “I like that in a woman.”

Encouraged, she shrugged. “I’m a very good temp; not everyone manages two hundred words per minute. And I managed to deal with Major Sholto’s finances and correspondence well enough. I see no reason to sell myself below my worth out of false modesty.”

“You’re absolutely right,” the man lifted the folder in his hand a bit. “Major Sholto seems to have been very satisfied with your work. Do you mind me asking why you’ve left his employment?”

“Not at all,” she shrugged again. “Frankly, the loneliness in the middle of nowhere was driving me mad. I’m still too young to be buried alive.”

“Hmmm… that might be a problem, as I lead a somewhat isolated life myself, at least most of the time; that is, when I’m not working,” the man said thoughtfully. “You’d be required to accompany me when I do, sometimes, but otherwise you’d be bound to the house, I’m afraid.”

He considered the possibilities for a moment. “Perhaps a pay-rise of fifty per cent would sweeten the prospect of loneliness for you?”

Wanda was baffled. Completely baffled. Earning that amount of money would help her out of her debts; even enable her to lay some reserves to the side for later, harder times. Frankly, such an offer was almost too good to be true.

The man, however, seeing the look of incredulity on her face, took out his wallet and pulled a cheque out of it. It was already signed, though Wanda couldn’t quite read the signature.

“It is also my custom,” he said, smiling in the most charming manner, so that his eyes were positively sparkling in his handsome face, “to advance my employees half their salary beforehand, so that they may meet any expanses of their journey and their wardrobe.”

Wanda needed all her self-discipline to keep herself from gaping in surprise. It seemed to her that she’d never met such a fascinating and thoughtful man. As she was already in debt to her landlady, the advance was a great convenience. 

The last thing she would have wanted was to move back in with her grandfather and her overbearing mother. Sylvia Hunter was not an easy woman to live with, especially for any daughter of hers.

And yet there was something unnatural about the whole transaction; something that made her wish to know a little more before she would commit herself.

“May I ask where you live, sir?” she asked carefully.

The man flashed another one of those blinding smiles at her.

“Hampshire,” he replied. “Charming, rural place. It’s an old country house called _The Copper Beeches_ , in the village of Otterbourne, five miles south of Winchester, on the Southampton High Road.”

Wanda nodded, somewhat reassured. That wasn’t too far off the main travel routes. She could take the train to Winchester and then a cab to her final destination. Or she could drive down with her old car that was a bit battered but still functional.

“And my duties, sir?” she continued. “I’d prefer to know in advance what they would be, so that I can prepare myself.”

“No great preparations would be necessary,” the man assured her. “Your job would be basically the same you did for Major Sholto – with one marked exception.”

“And that would be what exactly?” Wanda wasn’t going to walk blindly in any possible trap and she wanted to make that adamantly clear from the beginning.

The man smiled at her disarmingly. “Nothing that you’d find morally objectionable, I’m sure. You see, in my line of work I need to make an appearance at certain social events: receptions, press conferences and the likes. On such occasions, I’m expected to appear in female companionship; therefore I’d ask you to accompany me.”

If possible, Wanda was even more surprised.

“Are you a politician of some sort or what?” she asked warily.

The man laughed; no, actually, it was more a high-pitched giggle that seemed odd, coming from such a big, masculine person. Was he perhaps queer and needed an alibi woman at his side?

“Oh, no, nothing so mundane,” he then said with twinkling eyes. “Forgive my rudeness; I haven’t even introduced myself as I should have.”

Again, he took out his wallet, fished a business card out of it and handed it to her. It was a simple white rectangle of thick, fine quality paper, with the name JEFF RUCASTLE on it, the Hampshire address and a phone number… and nothing else.

Not that anything else would have been necessary. Wanda usually read nothing but the tabloids, but her grandfather was an avid reader of both _The Guardian_ and _The Times_ , so thanks to old Wilf’s interest in world politics, she knew very well who her prospective employer was.

“The journalist?” she asked in awe. “The star photographer?”

Mr Rucastle grinned at her contentedly. Clearly, shyness was _not_ a problem he had to struggle with.

“I see my fame has preceded me,” he said.

Wanda snorted. “Oh, please! _Everybody_ in this country knows you. You’ve got quite the reputation, you know.”

“A good one, I hope,” Mr Rucastle kept grinning at her.

“Mostly,” she returned playfully. For while it was true that his reputation was free of any big scandals, there were enough rumours – contradictory ones, granted – that would make a single woman wary about him.

“I don’t understand, though,” she continued. “You could get just anyone to work for you. Big name professionals would give an arm for this chance. Why do you need an agency to find a personal assistant for you?”

“I’m currently working on a book that would summarize my work at the various war zones of the world,” he explained. “I did not want some scatter-brained star secretary who’s drawn by the fact that I’m some sort of celebrity. I need somebody who can help me with my research and typing up the manuscript, aside from the usual correspondence and financial things. I needed somebody who wouldn’t mind working _hard_.”

That actually made sense, Wanda found.

“Well, I should be happy to make myself useful,” she said.

“Excellent,” Mr Rucastle said. “Now, there’s just a small matter of which I’m afraid I must insist. As I said, you’d be required to accompany me on certain social events, which would demand a dress code. You wouldn’t object to wear a certain sort of clothes on these events, would you? I’d be the one to pay for the clothes, of course, as you’d buy them for my purposes.”

Wanda shrugged. “As long as I won’t look like a whale in them, it’s fine with me.”

Mr Rucastle giggled again. “My dear, I’m a professional photographer. Do you really think I’d make a lady like you look unflattering on purpose?”

Again, that made sense. And yet Wanda had the feeling that the other shoe was still about to drop.

“What else?” she asked.

“Well, I must insist on a certain visual appearance with my escort,” Mr Rucastle said. “So I hope you won’t mind cutting your hair short before you came to us.”

Wanda could hardly believe her ears. It had taken her _years_ to grow out her thick, russet hair to a length where it was easy to handle and to make it look orderly and respectable. She wouldn’t dream of sacrificing the results of her years-long efforts in such off-hand fashion.

“I’m afraid that would be quite impossible,” she said, and the job be damned.

Miss Stoper looked up from her computer screen in sudden alarm; her great, heavy chin, which rolled down fold upon fold over her throat, was trembling indignantly upon Wanda’s unreasonable answer.

Mr Rucastle, however, seemed unfazed by the rejection.

“And I’m afraid that it’s quite essential,” he said. “As I said, I require a certain look from my escort, which includes tailored dresses and a somewhat nobler version of a bob cut. Otherwise she is of no use for me. So, you won’t cut your hair then?”

Wanda looked him straight in the eye. “No, sir, I really could not,” she answered firmly.

For a moment Mr Rucastle stared at her in the most unsettling manner of a snake ready to eat a small bird; then he shrugged genially.

“All right then; that settles the matter,” he replied dismissively. “It’s a pity, because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young ladies.”

Said respectable woman had sat during their conversation busying herself with her electronic database without a word to either of them, but now she glanced at Wanda with such annoyance on her round face that Wanda couldn’t help suspecting that she had lost a handsome commission through Wanda’s refusal.

“Do you want your name to be kept in our database, Miss Hunter?” she asked in a manner that suggested she would be glad to be rid of such an unreasonable client.

“If you please, Miss Stoper,” Wanda replied – because what else could she have done, even though it was clear that the perspective of dealing with her again did not please Miss Stoper the least… a theory that the reaction of the worthy lady only cemented a moment later.

“Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most excellent offers in this fashion,” said _Westerway’s_ resident whale morosely. “You can hardly expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you. Good day to you, Miss Hunter!”

She pushed the intercom button and Wanda was ushered out by the harried-looking secretary to return to her plain little bed-sit with the near-empty fridge and the unpaid bills.


	4. The Art of Persuasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story.   
> Beta read by the most generous englishtutor whom I owe my gratitude.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 04 – THE ART OF PERSUASION**

“That’s it?” Sherlock asked impatiently. “It seems to me you’ve already made up your mind and have been thus wasting your time – and _mine_ – by coming here. I admit that Mr Rucastle’s demands do seem slightly odd, but I presume there’s sentiment behind them.”

He pronounced the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth and John grinned.

“Okay, tell us about it,” he said.

“There was probably an ex-lover in his past with looks similar to Miss Hunter’s,” Sherlock launched into deductive modus. “He most likely wants to pretend he has her back while showing himself publicly with an alter ego. Pathetic, really,” he added in a bored tone, ignoring the offended expression of their client.

“Wait, Sherlock,” John said. “I don’t think that’s all there is about this story. Is it?” he turned back to Miss Hunter, who shook her head.

“No. You’re right, Doctor Watson; that was just the beginning. When I got back to my bed-sit and found nothing but some leftover take-away in the fridge and half a dozen bills on the kitchenette counter, I began to ask myself if I hadn’t been a bloody fool to refuse the offer. After all, if Mr Rucastle had a fancy for his employees wearing a specific hairstyle, at least he was ready to pay for his eccentricity. I can deal with eccentricity, you know.”

“I don’t doubt it,” John said kindly; the obvious distress of their client hadn’t left him untouched. “You held out with James Sholto for two years, after all… and he didn’t pay you as much as Mr Rucastle promised.”

Miss Hunter nodded. “Very few personal assistants, unless they are the chief secretaries of some _really_ big business, are getting a salary like that; and most certainly no temp workers.”

“If you put it that way, having your hair cut perhaps wouldn’t have been such a big sacrifice,” John suggested gently. “Hair is just hair, after all; it will grow out again, given enough time.”

“True,” Miss Hunter agreed. “Besides, what use is my hair to me in my current situation? Even if I were forced to cut it and sell it, it wouldn’t bring me enough money to pay the bills. The salary that Mr Rucastle offered _would_.”

“A lot of people look even better with short hair, though I don’t think there would be any difference in your case,” John said gallantly, studiously ignoring Sherlock’s disgusted eyeroll.

“Do shut up, John, you’re making me nauseous,” the world’s only consulting detective intoned before turning to their client. “So you’re inclined to think you’ve made a mistake by refusing the offer?”

“I was sure of it by the day after,” Miss Hunter confessed. “I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to the agency and ask if the job was still available when the e-mail came in.”

“What e-mail?” John asked.

Sherlock shot him an irritated look.

“An e-mail from Jeff Rucastle in which he repeats or perhaps even tops his offer, obviously. Try to use that pathetic little brain of yours!”

John ignored the insult with practiced ease.

“Did Mr Rucastle send you an e-mail?” he asked to clarify things.

Miss Hunter nodded. “I can’t afford a desktop computer or a laptop, or one of these modern iPad things, but I still have my smartphone,” she said. “My grandfather pays for it, which is a real shame, but I need it to keep in touch with the rest of the world… and to follow the job offers online.”

Sherlock held out his hand in an imperious manner. “Show me!”

After a moment of hesitation, Miss Hunter handed him her phone. It wasn’t password-protected, so he could access her e-mails immediately. Right on top was the one from Mr Rucastle; Sherlock read it out loud for John.

*  
 _Dear Miss Hunter,_

_Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your address, as I hope I can persuade you to reconsider your decision. I’d be willing to add another ten per cent of pay-rise to recompense you for any inconvenience my demands may cause you. They are not unreasonable, after all. As a media personality, a certain… class is expected from me and from any escort of mine when I make a public appearance. In my experience it isn’t a great hardship for a woman to wear designer clothes._

_As for your hair, though, I’m afraid I must remain firm on this part and can only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the loss._

_Should you decide to come, after all, I’ll have the car waiting for you at Winchester. Let me know your train._

_Sincerely,  
Jeff Rucastle_

*  
“He sounds awfully sure that you’ll accept,” John commented, frowning.

“He sounds like _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock corrected in disgust. “Especially the car part. If I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d suspect they were related.”

John, who – unlike Sherlock – had seen Jeff Rucastle in person, nearly fell to the floor in hysterical laughter. It would have been hard to imagine two people who were more different than the charming, outgoing American journalist and the posh, reserved, vaguely sinister Mycroft Holmes.

“Ignore him,” the doctor said to their baffled client, once he got himself under control again. “He’s not on friendly terms with his brother and likes to compare everyone’s supposedly bad habits with Mycroft’s.”

“There’s nothing _supposed_ in Mycroft’s bad habits,” Sherlock groused. “They are very real and very annoying.”

“Unlike yours, of course,” John countered with a tolerant grin. “But that’s neither here nor there. We’re discussing Miss Hunter’s choices, in case you’ve already deleted the fact.”

“What choices?” Sherlock asked. “She’s clearly made up her mind and will take the job, so what’s there to discuss?”

“She has?” John asked in surprise; he seemed to remember that Miss Hunter had stated the opposite upon her arrival; he turned to her. “You have?”

“Sort of,” she admitted reluctantly. “I thought, however, that before taking the final step, I should ask Mr Holmes’s opinion about the whole matter.”

Sherlock gave her a look of offended boredom. “If your mind is made up, that settles the situation. You can go now.”

“But you would not advise me to refuse?” she asked hesitatingly.

“You’re old enough to make your own decisions,” Sherlock said, tactless as ever. “And if you can’t stick to them, that’s your problem. Though I must admit that this isn’t a job I’d like to see my sister apply for. _If_ I had a sister, that is. Fortunately, I haven’t.”

Miss Hunter stared at him in confusion. “What is the meaning of all this, Mr Holmes?”

“How should _I know_?” Sherlock threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “I have no data. _At all_! Without data, I can’t work.”

“Perhaps you’ve formed a theory yourself?” John intervened smoothly.

Miss Hunter nodded. “Well, there seems to be only one possible solution. As Mr Holmes said before, Mr Rucastle must have had an ex-lover, or perhaps an ex-wife, with very specific looks. Perhaps not everyone knows that they’ve broken up and he wants to keep the matter quiet, for fear of his reputation, so he needs a doppelganger to play her role on social events where his ex isn’t well-known.”

“Sounds plausible,” John agreed. “What do you think, Sherlock?”

“That is _one_ plausible situation,” Sherlock allowed. “In fact, by what little data we have, it seems the most probably one. Still, if I were a single woman, I’d think twice before moving in with the enigmatic Mr Rucastle. There may be aspects we known nothing of as yet.”

“But the money, Mr Holmes, the money!” Miss Hunter reminded him.

“Yes, yes, of course, the pay is good – too good,” Sherlock said impatiently. “That’s what makes me suspicious. Why should a man like Jeff Rucastle, a media celebrity who could have anyone work for him for half the price he’s offering you, offer you so much? Nobody is _that_ good. There must be some reason behind it; a reason stronger than mere nostalgia.”

“Perhaps,” Miss Hunter allowed. “In any case, I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand afterward if I wanted your help. It would be reassuring to know that I could count on you.”

“Why would I be inclined to do so?” Sherlock asked.

“Because her little problem is the most interesting that has come your way for weeks,” John pointed out. “And you’ve been complaining about boredom ever since the dratted incident with the pool. Be glad that Mycroft hasn’t managed to prevent her from coming here and presenting her case.”

“There is that,” Sherlock admitted. “There’s something distinctly novel about some aspects of this case.”

“And that’s the greatest compliment you can expect from him,” John told their client. “Rest assured that he _will_ take your case, even if I have to handcuff him and drag his sorry backside down to Hampshire by force. Should you find yourself in doubt or in danger…”

“Danger?” she cried out in alarm. “What danger do you foresee?”

John looked at Sherlock questioningly. The detective shrugged.

“It would cease to _be_ a danger if we could define it,” he said nonchalantly.

“But any time, day or night, a phone call or text message will bring us down to your aid,” John promised.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John gave him a quelling look.

“Thank you,” Miss Hunter said in relief. “That’s enough for me.” She rose from her chair in determination. “I _will_ go down to Hampshire because frankly, I need the money desperately, but it eases my mind to know that I can count on the two of you. I’ll call Mr Rucastle at once, have my hair cut tonight and leave for Winchester tomorrow.”

She thanked them profusely again and left the house, with a relieved spring in her step.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As soon as she was out of the door, Sherlock glared at John accusingly. “You _had_ to make promises in my name, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, I had,” John replied calmly. “You’ve been miserable ever since the incident – and unbearable as a flatmate as a result. You’ve been complaining about the lack of cases – well, here you have a case. Solve it!”

“Oh, please!” Sherlock said with a haughty sniff. “It’s barely a three!”

“All the better; I’m not in the mood to deal with the mutilated corpses you prefer,” John replied tiredly. “And a trip to the countryside, should we be needed on Miss Hunter’s behalf – a bit of fresh air will do us a wealth of good.”

“Fresh air is overrated,” Sherlock told him crossly. “And the countryside, idyllic though it may seem to the naked eye, is far from being the innocent place most people, especially those who live in big cities, believe it to be.”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the vilest, dirtiest alleys in London don’t present a worse record of crime than does the oh-so-idyllic countryside,” Sherlock told him matter-of-factly.

John’s frown deepened. 

“Do you really mean that or are you just being contrary for the sake of being contrary?” he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “But the reason is obvious, John! In a big city, the pressure of public opinion can do what the law cannot accomplish. Even in the worst areas of a city, there’s always at least one neighbour who reacts with indignation when a child is hurt or a spouse beaten… or somebody breaks into a flat. Also, the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there’s but a step between the crime and the dock…” 

He trailed off, seeing John’s amused expression. “What?”

“I thought the police were stupid and incapable of catching the bad guys and keeping the criminal element in check,” John explained, clearly amused.

“They are,” Sherlock agreed amiably. “Fortunately for the people of London, they’ve got me, though.”

John grinned. “And that’s why the countryside is at a disadvantage?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “Of course not, don’t be deliberately obtuse! What I meant is that on the countryside, there are lots of lonely houses, each with its own field, fairly isolated from the other ones. Think of the hidden crimes that can happen any time in such places, without anyone noticing them!”

“And you think _The Copper Beeches_ might be such a place?” John asked in concern.

Sherlock shrugged. “Possibly. I don’t know. Had Miss Hunter gone to live in Winchester, there would be no reason for concern. It’s the five miles of country which makes the danger.”

John mulled over that in his head for a while and had to agree.

“At least she seems to be a woman who is very well able to take care of herself,” he finally said.

“And she would need to be,” Sherlock said grimly. “I would be surprised if we didn’t hear from her soon.

John wanted only the best for the resolute Miss Hunter, but he fervently hoped that Sherlock would be right. They needed a change of scenery before the bored detective started shooting the walls out of sheer frustration.

About other possible kinds of shots he didn’t even want to think.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
However, it took longer than expected before Sherlock’s prediction was fulfilled. A fortnight went by, during which John frequently found his thoughts turning in Miss Hunter’s direction, and wondering what bloody mess the lonely woman might have gotten herself into.

The unusual salary, the curious conditions, the demand that she accompany the star photographer on events where celebrities usually appeared with their significant others – all pointed to something suspicious. Though whether it was mere eccentricity or some serious crime, whether Jeff Rucastle was just unusually generous with his money or had some hidden agenda, John couldn’t quite determine.

His extensive research on Rucastle turned up nothing. The man seemed to be exactly who he was supposed to be. There was not trace of a criminal past… _or_ an ex-wife, for that matter.

Granted, information from the States was sparse; there was as good as nothing to be found before the time when Rucastle began his career in America. It was as if he had popped up out of nowhere one day, with a promising career already on the move upwards, and with his financial status already fairly solid.

The last fifteen years of said career, during which his star had been rising steadily, he had spent travelling around the globe and doing freelance work for the most respected British papers, including The Guardian and The Times. Of his private life, assuming that he had one to begin with, there was nothing to be found.

Sherlock pretended to ignore John’s research, spending a great deal of time in his Mind Palace. Whenever John mentioned the case, he swept the matter away with a wave of his hand.

“I can’t make bricks without hay,” he declared in obvious annoyance every time.

And yet John could often hear him muttering unflattering remarks under his breath about idiotic women who’d do anything for money and really deserve their fate.

It took nearly two months before they finally could move on with the case, and it wasn’t in a manner either of them would have expected.


	5. A Haunted House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story.  
> I have no idea if there’s really an old steam locomotive displayed at Winchester railway station. I just thought it would be nice if they had one on display. Sorry. Poetic licence and all that.  
> My sincerest thanks to my generous beta, the wonderful englishtutor. I also thank the picowrimo crowd for their helpful suggestions.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**CHAPTER 05 – A HAUNTED HOUSE**

As she had told Mr. Holmes she would do, Wanda Hunter went to a good salon and had her thick red mane turned into a somewhat old-fashioned bob cut, complete with a fringe, as the picture Mr. Rucastle had e-mailed her showed. She wasn’t entirely happy with the results – she found that the haircut made her look horse-faced, despite the fake professional compliments of the hairdresser – but that was a moot point. She got paid for the new, unflattering look, and in her current situation that was the thing that counted.

The next morning, she paid her debts to the landlady and decided to pre-pay the rent for the next two months as well, just in case the new job shouldn’t work out. Then she packed her meagre belongings in two small suitcases and took a cab for Paddington Station to catch the train that would take her to Winchester via Reading.

She wondered briefly why Mr. Rucastle would insist on fetching her from Winchester. It would have been easy for her to walk over to the bus station and change into the bus for Otterbourne, after all. But then she shrugged it off, chalking it up to the general eccentricity of her new employer.

The train ride to Winchester took a little longer than an hour and was blessedly uneventful. As much as Wanda liked to have company on her – sadly, very rare – travels, at this particular time she couldn’t have tolerated a chatty fellow traveller. She wasn’t in the right state of mind for small talk. 

She couldn’t forget Mr. Holmes’s warning and was getting increasingly nervous with each passing mile. The book she’d taken with her to read on the train – one of those meaningless bodice-rippers that don’t require actual attention from a reader – remained in her handbag, untouched. She was just too tense to read anything at all.

When the train finally rolled into Winchester railway station, she had to force herself to actually get out. She had never been one to back off easily, though, so she dutifully climbed down with her two suitcases – and with the help of a sullen teenager she had bullied into carrying her luggage. 

Then she stood at the platform, flanked by aforementioned suitcases, and waited.

And waited.

Ten minutes later, she was annoyed and bored out of her head. Despite its prominence, the station only had two platforms – one on the western side, with the line running in a northerly direction towards the terminal of London Waterloo, the other one on the eastern side where she was standing, with the line running in a southerly direction towards Eastleigh – and little else.

The ticket offices, the small shop and an establishment called _The Pumpkin Café_ didn’t really count. It was the most boring place she’d visited in the last couple of years, and that, after having worked for Major Sholto in the middle of nowhere, was saying a lot.

The old steam locomotive displayed on the other side of the platforms didn’t count, either, although she thought her grandfather would have loved it. Old Wilf was very much into such things.

She was about to walk over to the ticket office and ask if she could get a retour ticket back to London when finally someone showed up to fetch her.

Instead of the charismatic Mr. Rucastle, though, it was a bitterly beautiful black woman in her late twenties, wearing a charcoal grey trouser suit and a blouse of raw silk. Her designer handbag had probably cost more than what Wanda usually got in a month and her great wealth of curly black hair framed her face like a dark cloud.

“Miss Hunter?” she asked in a pleasant, low-pitched voice that, nonetheless, appeared to hold some well-concealed hostility.

Wanda bit back a snappy answer because really, who else _could_ she have been, standing on the northern platform with her two suitcases like some forgotten piece of luggage, wearing the stupid bob cut Mr. Rucastle had insisted on so empathically? Still, there was no need to alienate the locals; at least not before she’d learn more about them, so she simply nodded.

“Jeff asked me to fetch you; he got an unexpected job and it’s taking him longer to finish than he thought it would,” the woman explained. “I’m sorry you had to wait, but the parking area here is a nightmare. Sometimes I’ve got the suspicion that half the inhabitants of Winchester routinely mistake it for an open-air garage.”

Her accent revealed her as a Londoner; and as a middle-class Londoner at that. But there was something in her demeanour that spoke of simpler origins. She was probably the first one of her family to reach a somewhat higher social standard.

Or she was an excellent actress.

Whatever the truth might be, Wanda was _not_ going to climb into her car, just because she pretended to be close to Mr. Rucastle. Close enough to be on first-name basis with him, apparently.

“And you would be…?” Wanda trailed off expectantly.

“His editor,” came the prompt answer. “My name is Letitia Toller. You can call me Tish, I suppose, since I can’t break anyone else of the habit of doing so.”

“You don’t like being called so, though, do you?” Wanda asked.

Miss Toller shrugged. “Still better than Letty, which my brother liked to call me… until I gave him a literal bloody nose.”

“I think I’ll stick with ‘Miss Toller’ for the time being,” Wanda decided.

For the first time, the shadow of a smile appeared on the younger woman’s beautiful face.

“That’s fine with me,” she grabbed one of Wanda’s suitcases without asking. “Come with me. My car is small, but Jeff took the SUV with him, so it will have to do.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Miss Toller’s car turned out to be one of those minis that had recently become so popular: it had room for two front seats and some storage space only. With some difficulty, they hauled Wanda’s suitcases into the boot and left for Otterbourne.

Driving seemed to relax Miss Toller a bit, so Wanda used the chance to learn more about the place that would be her home in the foreseeable future.

“So you work with Mr. Rucastle on that book of his?” she started with what she thought would be a harmless topic.

Miss Toller nodded, never taking her eyes off the road.

“Jeff is a true artist when it comes to photography; and he’s very good at getting the stories out of people,” she explained, her admiration for the man obvious. “Unfortunately, he’s not very good at _presenting_ those stories. He tends to be overly dramatic, and his odd sense of humour can be off-putting for those who don’t know him well. And don’t even let me start about his grammar… _or_ the American slang and spelling he can’t help using. That’s where I come into the picture.”

“You mean you basically write the stories for him?” Wanda asked, her opinion about her new employer dropping several notches.

She knew, of course, that such things happened, more often than readers would think, but she would never have expected _that_ from Jeff Rucastle, of all people.

Miss Toller shook her head. “Oh, no! Those are _his_ stories, all right. He was the one who’s risked his life countless times to hunt them down. I just help translating them into a language the average reader would understand the way they were actually _meant_.”

“But if you’re already working with him on the book, what would he need _me_ for?” Wanda asked in confusion.

Miss Toller doubtlessly would be a more than worthy companion on any social events, too – unless Mr. Rucastle had very good reasons not to take her with him.

Miss Toller gave her a grin that was positively wicked. “You’re in for the slave labour, of course. Can you believe, he still types using his index fingers only?”

Wanda had to admit that it made sense. Mr. Rucastle couldn’t expect his lady editor to type up his manuscript as well. Hiring a temp – and a good one! – for the menial task was a practical solution… though it still didn’t explain why he would want to make public appearances in the company of his plain PA instead of that of his radiant editor.

But that was a question for another time, Wanda decided.

“Tell me about _The Copper Beeches_ ,” she said instead. “What is it like? I’ve never been to a country house before.”

Miss Toller shrugged again. “There’s not much to tell about the place, really. It’s beautifully situated, I’ll give it that, but it is rather ugly itself: a large, square block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. It should have been demolished decades ago. What inspired Jeff to buy it is beyond me; unless it’s the grounds, of course. Americans seem to like that sort of thing.”

“There are grounds?” Wanda asked in surprise, and Miss Toller nodded.

“All around the house, yeah; woods on three sides, and on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from the front door.”

“And all that ground belongs to Mr. Rucastle?” Wanda couldn’t help being impressed.

“Of course not!” Miss Toller said with an inelegant snort. “Just the field in front. The woods all round are part of Lord Southerton’s preserves, although the locals do not always seem to interpret that fact so narrowly, if you know what I mean.”

Wanda could make an educated guess – not that she would care if the one or other pheasant or hare wandered into the pots of the locals.

“Where did the house get its name?” she asked instead.

“Oh, there’s a clump of copper beeches immediately in front of the hall door,” Miss Toller replied dismissively. “Ugly, gnarled things that should be cut down, but for some reason I cannot comprehend Jeff loves them and won’t let my father lay hand on them.”

“Your _father_?” Wanda echoed in surprise.

“The groundskeeper of _The Copper Beeches_ ,” Miss Toller said defiantly. “My Mum is Jeff’s housekeeper.”

Wanda thought to have understood. “Is that how you met Mr. Rucastle?”

But Miss Toller shook her head again. “No; it’s the other way round. I’ve known Jeff since I spent my gap year in the States, working for a magazine; and I’ve been working with him for seven years by now. When he moved across the pond and settled in the UK, he bought this monstrosity of a house. He needed personnel, and my Dad needed a job desperately. He used to be the janitor of a huge block of flats but lost his job due to his drinking. So he and Mum were happy to move to Otterbourne… even though the house is a nightmare.”

“It is?”

“Oh, yes. You’ll see.”

“Do you live there, too?” Wanda asked.

“Not when I can avoid it,” Miss Toller replied darkly. “Unfortunately, I cannot; not before Jeff has finished his book.”

“You mean before _you_ have finished it for him,” Wanda corrected.

“It is still his book,” Miss Toller said loyally. “I’m just the editor.”

It made Wanda wonder if there was some sort of office romance going on between the devastatingly handsome Mr. Rucastle and his beautiful editor – and if yes, why wouldn’t the star photographer acknowledge it. They didn’t live in the era of abolition any longer; and social differences shouldn’t count for an American.

She decided that she didn’t envy Miss Toller, designer clothes and trendy car notwithstanding.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Miss Toller proved to be a calm and competent driver and they reached Otterbourne practically in no time.

“Not much of a place, really,” she commented, while driving along a row of identical-looking brick houses on Waterwork Road, the dismay of somebody used to live in a big city clear in her voice. “It has about a thousand five hundred inhabitants and a little more than six hundred dwellings altogether. There’s a school and a post office and a village shop… and that’s basically it.”

“No chance of a social life, I guess,” Wanda said sourly.

Miss Toller shrugged. “There are some events at the Village Hall from time to time, and the three public houses are nice enough, especially _The White Horse_ , but the whole place is deadly dull. Unless you’re interested in church concerts, that is.”

Wanda shook her head. “Not really.”

“Well, be prepared to get bored out of your head, then,” Miss Tiller said darkly. “The house is just outside the village, and no-one drops by for days. The only entertainment you’ll have is Jeff telling stories – though, I must admit, he’s fairly good at it. And here we are!”

With that announcement, Miss Toller pulled up in front of _The Copper Beeches_ , which was, as she had warned Wanda in advance, a fairly ugly piece of work for a listed building. It was strange that Mr. Rucastle would have lived in such a neglected house for the last seven years – but obviously, that was the truth.

Despite its pleasantly green surroundings, the house radiated a gloomy atmosphere, even in the bright sunshine. And the beeches at the front door seemed ancient and gnarled indeed, as if they’d been petrified for centuries. Wanda got the creepy impression that they were somehow watching her.

“Looks like a haunted house,” she commented, her doubts whether she should have come here in the first place emerging again.

“Oh, believe me, the only things that haunt the people who live here are memories,” Miss Toller replied with a bitter smile. “At least the house has all modern conveniences in the inside. Jeff has been pestering the Village Council for years to let him do something about the outside, but they won’t allow it. The main argument is that the house looks more ‘authentic’,” she made quotation marks with her hands in the air, “with the patina of centuries-old dirt all over it.”

Their arrival had clearly been noticed, because the front door opened now and out came a black woman in her early fifties. She was clad with solid elegance, and Wanda could see at once whom Miss Toller had inherited her beauty and her regal bearing from.

Or her bitterness; the woman wore the same expression. 

At least she seemed pleased enough to see her daughter. “You made good time, Tish,” she said; her voice was deep, too, but somewhat rougher than that of her daughter. 

Then she turned to Wanda and gave her a once-over that made Wanda feel as if she had been x-rayed. “Welcome to _The Copper Beeches_ , Miss Hunter. I’m Francine Toller, Mr. Rucastle’s housekeeper. If you need anything for your daily comfort, you come to me. Let me show your rooms; I hope they’ll be satisfactory.”

“Where’s Dad?” Miss Toller asked when her mother made attempts to grab one of Wanda’s suitcases.

“What do you think?” her mother asked back bitterly.

“I see,” Miss Toller’s eyes grew cold. “He’s gone to _The Otter_ again?”

Wanda assumed that _The Otter_ would be one of Otterbourne’s three public houses, and Mrs Toller’s reply proved her right.

“Like every single day since that bleached little tramp has been working there,” the housekeeper said. “If you can call what she does there working. Or what your father does. He seems to be forgetting that Mr. Rucastle gave him a generous chance with this job – one he doesn’t deserve.”

“Mum, I don’t think Miss Hunter is interested in our family problems,” Miss Toller said with a faint hint of warning in her voice.

Miss Toller rolled her eyes. She clearly was a woman of strong opinions; one who didn’t need – or _want_ – her daughter to tell her what to do or what to leave alone.

“You realize you’ve grown old when your children feel entitled to lecture you as if you were an idiot,” she said dryly. “Come with me, Miss Hunter. Let’s make you comfortable.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As Miss Toller had promised, _The Copper Beeches_ had been brought up to 21st century standards since Mr. Rucastle had purchased it. The rooms selected for Wanda were situated, to her surprise in the best part of the house, opposite those of Mr. Rucastle himself.

The furniture, though aged and worn, had clearly been selected with a female inhabitant in mind, and although the style and the floral pattern of the covers made her hair rise, once it must have cost a pretty penny. It was not a style she would have chosen for herself – way too old-fashioned for her personal taste – but she was definitely given what must have been the rooms of the lady of the house in earlier times… which she found odd. She was just an employee, after all, and a temporary one at that, not a guest or a family member.

Filing away the thought for future consideration, she unpacked her suitcases – her clothes didn’t even fill half of the huge, old-fashioned wardrobe – and then began to explore her rooms. They formed an independent little suite that now obviously was hers. They were also considerably larger than the flat she had pre-paid the rent, just in case.

There was a generous living area, clearly meant to be used as a study as well, if the desktop computer on the beautiful old bureau standing in one corner near the window was any indication. From this area a doorway (without an actual door, which made her vaguely uncomfortable) led to the equally spacey bedroom, containing aforementioned huge wardrobe, a Victorian-style bed that would have been wide enough for three people yet wasn’t a true antiquity, a bedside table in the same style and even a dressing table with an oval mirror, which came complete with combs and hairbrushes and little phials of nail polish (all in the same dull, dark red colour) and everything a woman could possibly need for applying and later removing her make-up.

Wanda suspected Miss Toller’s hand in the arrangement, although she couldn’t think of a reason why someone that young and attractive would choose such an ugly, dull colour for nail polish… even if she’d bought it for someone else. 

Someone _older_ , Wanda thought with a bitterness that wasn’t usually her nature.

The bedroom also had a small adjacent bathroom that had probably been transformed from a walk-in closet and was equipped with everything one could wish for: a free-standing bath-tub that had legs like the paws of a lion, a shiny copper water boiler, a showerhead above the bath-tub, a shower curtain that ran around the tub hanging from a copper tringle, a wash-stand with gilded taps, and a toilet hiding discretely in the corner behind the door.

Towels, three different dressing gowns, warm and light slippers (everything in the dull blue one could see on the computer screen, assuming one used Windows), shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, bottles of perfume, deodorant… everything had been laid out for her convenience. Just like the beauty products on the dressing table in the bedroom. And several sets of clothes – business suits as well as casual and tea dresses – had already been hanging in the wardrobe when she put in her own things. 

Her uncomfortable feeling resurfaced. There was something very odd in the whole situation, but for the time being she was determined to stay put and face it. She had already spent a great deal of the money she got in advance, after all. She couldn’t leave just yet.

Remembering Miss Toller’s casual remark that she would be expected in the drawing room within the hour, she decided to wash off the dirt of the train ride and put on one of the casual dresses she was apparently expected to wear. It fit as well as if she’d been measured for it, which she found a bit creepy at first, but then she remembered that Mr. Rucastle was a photographer – he probably had an excellent eye for measurements. The electric blue of the dress, combined with a crème-coloured jacket, wasn’t something she’d have chosen for herself either, but she had to admit that it went well with her red hair and the accessories that were also provided, namely a small, powder blue leather purse and a string of pearls that looked almost like the true item.

Still, she thought she should text Mr. Holmes before she went to face her employer in his own environment. When she pulled out her phone, though, she saw with impending dread that there was no signal on it at all. That was not good; that was definitely very not good!

She hurried over to the bureau to switch on the computer and send an e-mail instead. But when the maddeningly slow device finally booted up, she found that it had no Internet connection.

Basically, she was sitting in a trap with no chance to call in the cavalry, should she need them.

Before she could have started to panic earnestly, however, there was a discrete knock on her door.

“Miss Hunter?” the voice of Miss Toller called. “Jeff is expecting you, _now_.”

Wanda stomped down her rising panic ruthlessly. Showing her fear would have been unwise. In the best case, Mr. Rucastle was a harmless, albeit eccentric gentleman, and her suspicions would offend him. _If_ he was a truly dangerous man, however, showing her hand before she was able to call in reinforcements could prove fatal. It was best to pretend that she was happy with her new situation, at least for the time being.

“I’m coming!” she called back.

One last glance into the mirror, one last touch of powder to conceal the nervous redness of her cheeks – she always got beet red when other people normally blanched – and then she went indeed, with her chin raised defiantly and a wide, plastic smile plastered all over her face.


	6. Curious and curiouser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story.   
> I have no idea if there could be any wild boars in the woods of Hampshire – allow me the poetic licence and let’s pretend that there are. Or, at the very least, there was that one mentioned by Mr Rucastle.   
> BTW, I don’t necessarily share Wanda Hunter’s insights about Americans. She’s a bit snobbish that way, I’m afraid.  
> Many heartfelt thanks to englishtutor for the beta reading and to my good friend Linda Hoyland for the Brit-picking. Any remaining mistakes are my fault.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – CURIOUS AND CURIOUSER**

She followed Miss Toller to the drawing-room, which was a very large room, stretching along the entire front of the house, with three long windows reaching down to the floor. It was furnished in the same outdated fashion as her rooms – one she would never have guessed to be the taste of a genially charismatic man like Mr Rucastle. The furniture seemed as old as the house itself, but why hadn’t Mr Rucastle replaced it by now? Wanda found it extremely unlikely that it would be listed like the building. She never heard of such a thing; not when it came to the homes of ordinary people anyway.

Perhaps outdated things _were_ Mr Rucastle’s preference, after all, Wanda thought, as the master of the house rose from his comfortable leather armchair to greet her. Why else would somebody of his age and worldly experience wear slacks and braces at home, instead of the much more practical and comfortable jeans?

Remembering that Mr Rucastle was said to have Scottish roots, Wanda briefly wondered if the man had a kilt stowed away somewhere in his wardrobe. Sometimes Americans had the oddest ideas about tradition.

To her surprise, her employer wasn’t alone in the drawing-room. Apart from the inevitable Miss Toller, her mother was also present, presiding over the coffee table that was covered with the paraphernalia of a good, old-fashioned, English cream tea. Wanda had a hard time keeping her mouth shut. She had no idea that traditional cream tea was still served anywhere but in some obscenely expensive traditional cafés.

She decided that no matter what, she was going to make the most of the experience.

There was a high-backed chair placed close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. Mr Rucastle escorted Wanda to this chair and asked her to sit there, while Mrs Toller busied herself with “being mother”, meaning that she poured tea into the fine bone-china cups and served it to everyone.

To everyone but Mr Rucastle, that is. Among all this refined British tradition, their boss chose to drink coffee that, by the smell of it, was strong enough to keep the spoon standing upright. To add insult to injury, he drank it from a large, blue-and-white striped mug that stood in strong contrast with the elegant tea service the others were using.

His table manners weren’t much better, either. He slathered his scone generously with strawberry jam and clotted cream, only to stuff the whole thing into his face unceremoniously and in one piece. He even stooped as low as to lick excess jam and cream from his fingers, without the slightest sign of embarrassment.

The other two women pretended to ignore his behaviour, but Wanda noticed the tightening of skin around Mrs Toller’s eyes. The housekeeper might have been grateful to _have_ a job to begin with, but she didn’t necessarily approve of the antics of their boss.

For her part, Wanda wasn’t particularly bothered. Her ex-fiancé, Lance, had been a pig, too, but she’d have married him nonetheless, had he not turned out to be a _lying, cheating_ pig.

“So,” Mr Rucastle said, finishing his third scone and deciding, with visible regret, against eating a fourth one; at least for the time being. “How do you like _The Copper Beeches_ , Wanda? May I call you Wanda? You can call me Jeff, too, if you like.”

“That would be extremely unprofessional, Mr Rucastle,” Wanda replied a little stiffly; damn, but the bloke had charisma for three if he chose to show it. “I know Americans see these things differently, but…”

“You sound as if we were a different species,” Mr Rucastle interrupted her, giggling.

“Well, you _are_ ,” Miss Toller commented dryly; still, Wanda had the impression that in her eyes that was a good thing.

Mr Rucastle waved off her remark. “Nonsense. We can be as stubborn and pig-headed as an English Bulldog.”

Wanda refrained from the remark that English Bulldogs were good-natured, patient beasts.

“But you didn’t answer my question, Wanda,” Mr Rucastle continued. “How do you like the house?”

“Well, it is certainly a comfortable one, even if it’s a bit old-fashioned,” Wanda replied carefully. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it soon enough. I was somewhat surprised, though, when I found no signal on my phone. This close to Winchester, we should be able to connect to the local network.”

Mr Rucastle nodded, his expression a little sour.

“Yeah, I know. Annoying, ain’t it? Phones work perfectly well in the village itself, but out here… I haven’t got a clue what interferes with the signal, only that it _does_. Same for the Internet. The WiFi is so unreliable it’s not even funny, and in seven years, I haven’t been able to get cable here. I do most of my online research in internet cafés or at the local public houses with WiFi.”

“I can’t understand why people would choose to live in places like this,” Wanda, a true urban woman at heart, said. “I mean, the house is nice and everything, but country life is deadly _dull_ , and…”

She bit her lip, realizing that she’d probably offended her employer and tried to think of an apology to lessen the impact, but Miss Toller was faster.

“It is,” she said with emphasis.

Mrs Toller gave her daughter a disapproving look but Mr Rucastle didn’t seem in the least offended.

“Yeah, but it gets you invited to Lord Southerton’s shooting parties,” he replied, grinning. “Which are among the greatest events not only in Hampshire but in the entire South of England, ain’t they, Clive?”

The last question was aimed at a middle-aged, thick-set black man who had just entered the drawing-room. The man was wearing a tweed jacket over a checked flannel shirt, with knee-length trousers and high boots and looked like someone who was extremely pleased with his position in the house… whatever _that_ might be.

“Indeed, Mr Rucastle, sir,” he replied, removing his tweed cap respectfully.

He, too, had a London accent, despite his attempt to act like the groundskeeper of a proper country squire. A rather ridiculous attempt, really, considering the fact that Mr Rucastle, didn’t actually _have_ any grounds, save for the patch before his front door.

“Clive Toller is my odd-job man around the house,” Mr Rucastle introduced the newcomer. “He’s also the only man who can deal with Carlo, my mastiff. Well… I call him mine, but really, old Clive is the only one who can do anything with him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he’s always keen and alert. Clive lets him loose every night, and God help to the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon.”

He gave Wanda a too-bright smile. “It would be unwise to set your foot over the threshold at night; not to mention detrimental to your health.” 

“He means it,” Miss Toller added. “That beast is a _monster_!”

“That he is,” Mr Rucastle admitted easily. “Better than any alarm system – he can’t be switched off by would-be burglars. And he’s a great companion on walks through the woods. Remember that wild boar from last autumn, Clive?”

The groundskeeper grinned widely. “Oh, yeah, Mr Rucastle, sir! It had tusks like an elephant, but Carlo attacked it without fear and held it in check, so that it could be shot. The whole hunting party was stunned.”

“And that isn’t even the best story of all,” Mr Rucastle said, and he launched into an entire series of stories, all featuring Carlo the mastiff, that had Wanda in stitches.

The groundskeeper laughed with them. His wife and daughter, on the other hand, were not amused; they just sat there with forced patience and a slightly pained expression on their faces. They had likely heard the same stories too many times already to still find them funny.

After an hour or so, Mr Rucastle finally seemed to remember that they had work to do, so he, Miss Toller and Wanda relocated to the study, where they worked on his book. 

It was an odd way to write a book, for sure. Mr Rucastle would tell a story, using his photos and handwritten notes as a memory aid. Miss Toller wrote everything down in short-hand, correcting grammar and filtering out any American idioms that a British reader would find jarring. As soon as she had finished a page, she passed it to Wanda, who would type it into the computer, running the finished document through the spellchecker and grammar-checker. 

When this, too, was done, both Mr Rucastle and Miss Toller did their final, independent proofreading before saving the corrected document. Then they continued on to the next part, on which they worked in the same manner.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The following days were spent according to this routine. In the morning, Wanda had breakfast with Mr Rucastle and the Tollers – who seemed to have an odd position somewhere between servants and extended family – then they worked on Mr Rucastle’s book in the same manner as before, with only a short lunch break, till afternoon tea, which was always served in the drawing-room almost ceremonially.

When there weren’t scones, there were oatcakes or other traditional tea-time delicacies, sometimes even sandwiches. Mrs Toller, whom their employer called Francine with easy familiarity – it was most likely an American thing, Wanda decided – proved to be an excellent cook, and she baked the best biscuits, ever, so tea was the highlight of Wanda’s each and every day.

She was asked to wear the clothes provided by her employer all the time, and during tea she was required to sit in the same seat at the middle window, with her back to the street. Sometimes Mr Rucastle even asked her to read out passages from the book they were working on, stating that hearing it in a different voice than his own helped him to spot possible hidden flaws in the narrative.

It seemed to work for him as an inspiration, too, because he treated them with even more hilarious stories from his adventurous life as a journalist and photographer afterwards, which then found their way into the book during the after-tea work sessions. Even though Wanda could never be certain if he was telling the truth or just pulling their legs.

All this seemed harmless enough, the work itself even great fun, but after the first week of no contact with the outside world save for a few phone calls via landline to her mother and grandfather, Wanda began to suffer from cabin fever. It was worse than working for Major Sholto, really. At least while working as Sholto’s personal assistant, she could leave the house on errands, or on her days off.

Here, she didn’t even _have_ a day off, and she couldn’t visit the village proper without being chaperoned by the inevitable Miss Toller. And as infallibly polite as the young woman was to her, Wanda was quite certain that Letitia Toller didn’t like her… to put it mildly. So, having her as a companion was not the delightful thing one would have thought.

Granted, Mr Rucastle did give her a tour of Otterbourne on the fourth day after her arrival. He showed her the Village Hall, the three public houses and the former headquarters of Southern Waters, an 1980s office building that had been leased to various NHS organizations since 2007 and was, frankly, not in the least interesting. 

They had lunch at _The Old Forge_ , which was grand, and afterward visited _St Matthew’s_ , the beautiful, gothic parish church of the village, of which Mr Rucastle seemed to be a great fan. The church had an apsidial chancel, he explained, north and south transepts, a nave with a northern aisle and a bell-turret containing two bells in the western gable. The most valuable item was, according to Mr Rucastle, an interesting screen in the chancel, originating from a Premonstratensian abbey in Flanders.

Unfortunately, Wanda was neither religious, nor interested in the history of art and architecture, so she found the entire tour deadly boring. Not even the promise of a concert by _Otterbourne Brass_ , an apparently noteworthy local brass band, which was to take place in the Village Hall in the following week, could catch her interest.

Besides, after the first couple of days she made a curious observation. Whenever they were sitting in the drawing-room, Mr Rucastle and the Tollers appeared very careful to have her sit with her back to the windows, so that her face wouldn’t be visible to anyone who might have tried to look in from the outside.

Not that she’d ever seen anyone around the house since her arrival, apart from the Tollers and some random delivery personnel, which made the whole situation deeply unsettling. Because even if somebody _was_ spying on Mr Rucastle, why would they have any interest in _her_? She barely knew the man, after all.

Still, the particular clothes she was asked to wear, the demand of a haircut before taking the job… those were hints that she was playing somebody else’s role, without knowing it, and the thought made her nervous. Who could tell what might have happened to her doppelganger? The fact that she apparently needed a replacement didn’t bode well for said replacement, did it?

Wanda wished she could contact Mr Holmes or Dr Watson somehow, but with neither her phone nor the Internet working at _The Copper Beeches_ that was just not possible, and she didn’t dare to call them on the landline. She never saw any evidence for it in the house, but she was fairly sure that somebody could listen into any of her phone calls with the help of a second receiver. The house was fairly big, after all, and she knew she hadn’t seen every room of it yet.

Sneaking out of the house and into the village proper, where her phone _would_ work, was out of the question. During the day the Tollers watched her like a bunch of hawks, and at night time Mr Rucastle’s mastiff was keeping everyone but Mr Toller inside.

As a rule, Wanda was not afraid of dogs. In fact, she got on well enough with them, thanks to her simple, straightforward nature that seemed to appeal to most dogs. But a random glance out of the window of her bedroom at night time made her realize that she should take Mr Rucastle’s warning to heart and _not_ try her luck with the mastiff.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It happened on the second night after her arrival, at about two o’clock in the morning. Wanda was too unsettled to sleep and sat at her window, looking out onto the patch of land before the front door. It was a beautiful, moonlit night, and the lawn in front of the house was silvered over and almost as bright as day. 

Wanda usually wasn’t the sort of person who would be captivated by bucolic scenery, but at this once she simply stood there, enraptured in the peaceful beauty of the scene… until she became aware that something was moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the moonshine, she could finally see what it was. 

It was a giant dog, as large as a calf, tawny-tinted, with hanging jowls, a black muzzle and large, projecting bones. It walked slowly across the lawn, a silent sentinel on guard duty, and vanished into the shadow on the other side. The most frightening aspect was perhaps the deadly silence with which it moved. Wanda didn’t think that any burglar – or tabloid reporter, for that matter – would have escaped with their hide intact.

 _If_ they could have escaped at all in the first place.

Having seen the beast put an end to any plans she might have had to leave the house in secret. But her natural curiosity – the same character trait that made her read the tabloids regularly – conquered even her underlying fear that something was, indeed, very wrong either with the house or with Mr Rucastle or, quite possibly, with both, and as she couldn’t contact Mr Holmes, she decided to do a little bit of detecting on her own… starting with her own assigned rooms, as those were the ones in which she could move around relatively freely.

First she searched each room for hidden cameras. Granted, it was perhaps a little paranoid, but Mr Rucastle _was_ a journalist and a photographer, and such people usually had access to fairly advanced surveillance devices. As her thorough search turned up with nothing – either there were no hidden cameras at all, or they were hidden too well – she turned to the furniture, checking every single shelf and drawer meticulously.

And that was when she found the first clue.

There was an old chest of drawers, almost forgotten, in the corner of her bedroom. The two upper drawers were empty and open; however, the lower one was locked. She had already filled the upper ones with her lingerie and could have made good use of the third one, so she was naturally annoyed a bit by finding it locked.

She wondered if it had been purpose or mere oversight. But in either case, she was determined to see what might be in it.

Upon her arrival, she had been provided with a bunch of keys, meant for her rooms and the various cupboards in it, respectively, so now she began to try every single key on it into the look of the drawer systematically. 

None of them fit. That in itself she found revealing; but she was not about to give up just yet. At the age of eleven, she had already learned how to open a lock with a hairpin (which had earned her great respect among the children of the estate, much to her mother’s grief), even though she _had_ her hair cut at Mr Rucastle’s request, she had put her pins away for future use.

Now they would come in handy.

She did feel a tiny bit guilty for trying to open the drawer Mr Rucastle clearly didn’t want her to search, but her curiosity was stronger. Old Wilf had warned her often enough that one day it would get her in great trouble, quoting the saying about curiosity having killed the cat, but that had never stopped her before; and it wouldn’t stop her now.

She retrieved one of the pins from her vanity case and with some careful manipulation; she managed to pick the lock – without leaving any traces – in less than two minutes. Clearly, she hadn’t lost her touch yet.

To her disappointment, the drawer was almost empty – save for a thick manila folder that wore the simple, hand-written title: _Melissa_.

Wanda opened the folder and found it full of glossy photographs. Every single one of them featured a red-haired woman in her late twenties, wearing a rather unflattering bob cut with a fringe. Aside from the age difference, she did have a marked likeness to Wanda… in the _de luxe_ version, if her designer clothes and accessories were any indication.

Some of those clothes were the same ones that were hanging in Wanda’s wardrobe right now. The dark red lipstick and nail polish were also the same hue as the ones standing ready on her dressing table.

Now things were beginning to make sense: Mr Rucastle’s insistence that she had her hair cut, the clothes she was required to wear, that she had to sit with her back to the windows… Whoever this woman was, whatever might have happened to her, Wanda was clearly meant to play her role – for somebody who was probably watching the house.

She might or might not be in danger because of this. In any case, she needed to forward this piece of information to Mr Holmes, who had wanted more data to work with. And Wanda was practical-minded enough to find a way to do so, despite the efforts of her employer to isolate her.

While there was still no signal on her phone, it worked excellently as a digital camera. So she made copies from the photographs as well as taking a picture of the folder itself and forwarded them to Mr Holmes. The phone would keep them in the outbox till she got somewhere near to a mobile tower then it would send them on automatically, without anyone being the wiser.

Having done everything she could do for the moment, she put the folder back into the drawer, which she locked again with the help of her hairpin. Then she washed her face with cold water to regain her composure and changed her dress to the one she was always required to wear during afternoon tea. 

It was time to face her boss and his strange household again, and making them suspicious in any way would have been unwise.


	7. A Ghost From the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story; those are in italics.  
> I realize that the _White Horse Inn_ might not rent rooms to tourists; my internet research didn’t bring up anything conclusive. So let us just assume that they do, for the sake of the story, shall we?  
>  My heartfelt thanks to englishtutor for the beta reading and to my dear friend Linda Hoyland for the Brit-picking. All remaining mistakes are mine.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 07 – A GHOST FROM THE PAST**

Sherlock and John didn’t hear another word from Miss Hunter for almost two months. It was after Sherlock had solved the case John would later title “The Speckled Blonde” when the first life sign finally came in – in the form of an e-mail, sent to Sherlock’s official address that was displayed on his website, _The Science of Deduction_.

And it was a rather odd message, too, as it didn’t contain any actual _message_. Not a single word. Just a dozen or so photographs, not very high resolution ones at that, all of the same woman.

A woman with marked likeness to Miss Hunter.

“These are not the original ones,” Sherlock judged. “By the low quality of them I’d say she found the originals somewhere and made the copies with her camera phone; and quite hurriedly at that.”

“The woman does look a great deal like Miss Hunter,” John commented. “Do you think she’s the reason why Jeff Rucastle was so insistent on hiring her? Miss Hunter, I mean.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied with an exasperated eyeroll; it always annoyed him when people stated the glaringly obvious. “Whoever she might be, she is the key. If we figure out her identity, we’ll know what’s behind this suspicious job offer. A pity, really; with a probability of eighty-seven per cent, there’s some boring love affair behind the whole case. I expected more from it.”

“But how can we found out who she is?” John asked. “The clues, if there are any, are most likely in Jeff Rucastle’s past. That means the States; and we don’t even know where the man used to live before he showed up in New York, some eight or so years ago.”

“We don’t,” Sherlock admitted glumly. “The FBI might, though.”

John stared at him in surprise. “You have contacts within the FBI? Or are you planning to draft Mycroft into the case?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John; as if I’d ask _Mycroft’s_ help with a case that’s barely a three!” Sherlock replied with a derisive snort. “However, Detective Inspector Gregson has a brother or a cousin or somesuch, - I’ve deleted the details about his boring family life – who works for the NYPD. He might be able to help.”

John wasn’t so sure about that.

“Yeah, but would he be willing to do so?” he asked doubtfully. “Gregson hasn’t been happy about the fact that you’ve worked almost exclusively with Lestrade in the last six months. You know how jealous he is of Greg.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Irrelevant. He also owes me several favours, and I’m about to collect my debts. Besides, this isn’t even Lestrade’s case.”

“Gregson might still be holding grudges,” John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged again. “Also irrelevant. He knows he might need my help eventually. He’ll do me the favour to ensure my future cooperation. We need to get in touch with Miss Hunter, though. She may have more data she hasn’t managed to send us.”

“What about this?” John opened the morning paper to show his flatmate a small article in the section oddly named _Books & Events_. It had Jeff Rucastle’s photo and a report about his upcoming reading of his new book, not yet in print, in the Village Hall of Otterbourne.

“Our reporter, Mr Alex Fowler, will be there to give our readers a general impression,” the article ended the usual way, marking the agency from which it had come, as CAM News.

To John’s surprise, this seemingly insignificant little detail appeared to fascinate Sherlock.

“Now _that_ ,” the detective said in deep satisfaction, “is a clue.”

“Sorry, what?” John asked in confusion.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “CAM News, John, don’t you see it?”

“Yes, of course I see it,” John still didn’t understand. “So what?”

“CAM News won’t be interested in a rather unimportant cultural event, unless there’s some secret scandal in the background,” Sherlock explained evenly. “So, if CAM News is interested in Jeff Rucastle’s reading…”

“… then Mr Rucastle must have a few skeletons in his cupboard,” John finished for him.

Sherlock nodded. “Figuratively or literally, yes.”

“Which is why we’re going to the reading,” John guessed, familiar enough with Sherlock’s modus operandi by now.

“Precisely,” Sherlock was already texting Detective Inspector Gregson, sending him the unknown woman’s pictures and a list of data he needed Gregson to get for him.

His unshakable belief that people would always cater to his every whim never ceased to amaze John; _or_ the fact that most of the time people actually _did_ cater to his every whim – if only to get rid of him and his ruthless demands. 

Unless it was pure charisma. Or both.

Whichever the case might be, John knew he had no right to criticize others for giving in to Sherlock too easily. He regularly did the same, after all.

“Well,” Sherlock sent the text message on its way and then pocketed his phone with a flourish. “Why don’t you make yourself useful, John, and look up the trains to Otterbourne?”

Practical (=boring) things were usually John’s domain in their shared existence. However, in the light of his most recent considerations, the doctor felt like putting up at least a _little_ fight before doing as he had been told by his erratic flatmate.

“Why don’t you look them up yourself?” he retorted.

“ _You_ are using your computer,” Sherlock pointed out.

John rolled his eyes. ”What happened to yours?”

“It is in the bedroom,” Sherlock replied, as if _that_ would explain everything.

For him, it probably did.

John knew defeat when he was facing it, and that any further argument would be useless. So he stopped arguing and started looking up trains to Otterbourne… well, to Winchester, really, from where they would have to take the coach to their final destination. It didn’t really matter, though, as it was only a short distance.

He also took the liberty to book rooms in _The White Horse Inn_ for the two nights after Jeff Rucastle’s scheduled reading. Sherlock had entrusted to him the dealing with the money given them by Sebastian Wilkes for the “Blind Banker” case and he had been careful with it, so they could afford a short vacation in the countryside.

What was more, they _needed_ it. Sherlock would complain, of course, but he wouldn’t be able to deny that it was for a _case_ ; and as much as John loved London, there were times when he felt the desperate need of fresh air and a bit of peace and quiet. This was one of those times; and the first chance to actually get it.

“All done,” he announced, closing his laptop and grinning to himself, imagining Sherlock’s outrage when he would realize that they were going on a vacation.

He got no answer. Draped over the sofa, his hands steepled under his chin, the world’s only consulting detective was already deep in his Mind Palace. John shook his head in fond exasperation and went to the kitchen to make tea.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It would have been hard to tell which one of them was more surprised when only three days later Detective Inspector Gregson called them.

“Where did you get those pictures of Melissa Moretti?” he demanded.

Sherlock grimaced and held the phone a few inches from his head to prevent serious ear damage.

“If, as I assume, you are talking about the pictures I’ve forwarded to you, then they came from a client,” he replied in an exaggeratedly patient manner as if speaking to a particularly slow-witted child. “I do not know who the woman is; which is why I asked for your help. So; who _is_ Melissa Moretti?”

“She is – or rather _was_ , as she’s been presumably dead for almost a decade – the daughter of a minor mafia don in Chicago,” Gregson explained. “She was shielded from the unsavoury business the men of her family made money from and counted as some sort of celebrity in the so-called high society of Chicago.”

“And now she isn’t?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

He had put the phone on speakers, so that John could also listen; but at his questioning look, the doctor simply shook his head, signalling that the name didn’t ring a bell with him either.

“As I said: she hasn’t been seen for over nine years and is presumably dead,” Gregson replied with forced patience. John could almost see with his mind’s eye the man’s ruggedly handsome face turning red with ill-concealed annoyance; Sherlock did have that effect on a lot of people. “She went missing shortly after marrying a man named Jack Harper.”

“And no-one thought of questioning the husband?” Sherlock asked in exasperation. “Clearly, the American police are even more incompetent than ours!”

“They wanted to,” Gregson replied. “But the husband went missing on the same day and hasn’t been seen ever since, either.”

“Hardly a coincidence,” Sherlock commented. “I assume the woman’s money went missing with them as well.”

“The ink hadn’t dried on their marriage contract when her account was cleaned out,” Gregson said dryly. “No-one has ever figured out where they went.”

“I’m surprised that a mafia don, even a minor one, wouldn’t try to hunt them down,” Sherlock said. “Usually, the means of the mob are not as limited as those of the police.”

“Oh, according to my cousin they did look for the lovebirds for a while,” Gregson replied. “However, old Julian Moretti, the family head, died less than a year after his daughter’s disappearance, and his sons had a hard time establishing control over his small criminal empire. By the time their position became stable enough, the trail had long gone cold.”

“Hmmm…” John could see that Sherlock was already thinking hard, forming and rejecting theories with a dizzying speed. “That’s an interesting challenge. I’ll need all the background data you’ve got on this case.”

“I’ll send Sergeant Liu over with the file,” the Detective Inspector promised.

“That’s not necessary,” Sherlock began, but Gregson interrupted.

“Yes, it is. I’m willing to help you, Holmes, for a change, but I want in. Cousin Thomas took quite the risk to get you these facts; _if_ he can close the Moretti case after almost a decade it will make that risk acceptable. So, either you work with Liu on the case, or you don’t get any of the facts. It is that simple. Take it or leave it.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After some resistance, Sherlock gave in, of course… it was either that or asking Mycroft to get him the facts, and that was the last thing he would do. To be honest, John found his outrage over being blackmailed by Gregson quite amusing. 

Sherlock tended to forget that not everyone was as tolerant towards him as Gregory Lestrade, who had the patience of a saint. Gregson, while more than willing to accept Sherlock’s help in difficult cases, clearly despised him and wouldn’t give him the time of the day – unless he got something useful in exchange.

Half an hour later Sergeant Joan Liu, a somewhat dog-faced Chinese woman with no taste when it came to clothes, but capable of killing a Sumo wrestler thrice her size with her bare hands in six different ways, arrived at 221B with a thick manila file. She was a tiny, whipcord-thin person in her late forties and loyal to her boss to a fault. Yet in an unexpected bout of independent thinking, she had also become a great admirer of Sherlock’s methods, especially after the “Blind Banker” case. She might have been a third generation British citizen, but she still had great respect for her own roots and the culture of her ancestors.

This was the first time that John actually saw her in person and frankly, she gave him the creeps with her blank face and almost completely unblinking eyes. He assumed it worked well on suspects, too.

Sherlock, of course, remained completely unimpressed. He tore the folder from her hand without asking and soon he was submerged in its contents, while John was trying to do damage control, offering the Sergeant tea, which she gracefully accepted. John tried to apologize on Sherlock’s behalf, but Sergeant Liu waved off his concerns.

“I’ve known Mr. Holmes longer than you, Doctor. I know what to expect,” she said dryly.

“You’re still willing to work with him, which is more than we could say from Sergeant Donovan,” John replied.

Sergeant Liu shrugged her bony shoulders.

“Donovan is still young and a bit idealistic,” she said. “Should she stay with the Yard, say, another ten years, she’ll learn that getting the job done is the only important thing in our lives. Certainly more important than our personal sensibilities.”

“But you don’t like Sherlock, either,” John said. 

It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t have to _like_ him,” Sergeant Liu replied. “His methods _work_ , and that‘s the only thing I care about.”

John grinned. “You know, you almost sound like him.”

That earned him a fine, arched eyebrow. “Do not insult me, Doctor!”

John still thought she and Sherlock would be a match made in Heaven but he knew better than to say it.

In the meantime Sherlock had finished absorbing what little useful information the folder contained – he didn’t see Melissa Moretti’s musical and food preferences as particularly useful; after all, the woman was most likely dead – and threw the file on top of a pile of old cases.

“This is almost useless,” he announced. “We’ll have to go to Otterbourne and do our own investigation. Have you looked up the trains?”

John nodded. “Looked them up, bought the tickets online, and booked a room in _The White Horse_. I suggest you do the same, Sergeant,” he turned to Liu. “We may have to stay there longer than just for one night.”

Liu nodded. “Give me the web address and I will. What do I have to pack, aside from my toothbrush?”

“We’re going to a reading,” John explained. “It’s not a big place, so smart casual might be good enough… whatever ladies understand by that.”

“Will there be a buffet?” Sergeant Liu asked. “I could go undercover as part of a catering service.”

“I don’t think so,” John answered, a little uncertainly. “As far as I know it is a simple reading in the Village Hall, not some big event.”

“A shame,” Liu deadpanned. “You would be amazed what I can do in a tux and a bow tie.” (*)

John managed to withstand the urge to ask: _And nothing else_? Barely. He was glad that he could swallow the question in time. Somehow he doubted that the Sergeant would find it as funny as he did.

“Sorry, Sergeant, but I’m afraid there won’t be a chance this time,” was what he said instead.

Sergeant Liu accepted that with a shrug and, after saving the necessary links to her smartphone, she left. 

Needless to say that Sherlock was _not_ happy with the turn of events and spent the rest of the day in an epic sulk. 

John didn’t really care. He was happy for the chance to leave London for a couple of days and was looking forward to seeing the legendary Jeff Rucastle in the flesh again. Whatever else the man might have been, he had done a lot for the armed forces all over the world, portraying them in a fairer, more sympathetic light, and _that_ made him a good man in John’s books.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
By eleven o’clock on the next Saturday, they were well upon their way to the old English capital. Sherlock busied himself with his phone all the way down, doing his best to shut out the noise and olfactory attacks of the many people taking the same train. 

John had realized by now that the preference of his flatmate for cabs to public transportation came only partially coming from his privileged social status. In truth, the overlapping sensations on the Tube or a train were too much for his hypersensitive senses, which was why he tried to avoid them whenever he could. As a doctor, John understood that; but understanding did not make Sherlock any more pleasant as a travelling companion.

Sergeant Liu, laconic creature that she was, took it all in her stride, burying herself in the morning papers. She was the first woman John had ever known who read only the political, economic and sports sections of a paper, tossing the gossip columns aside with an expression of vague disgust and handing the pages she had finished wordlessly to John.

As usual, she was wearing clothes more fitting a woman half her age, which looked a bit ridiculous on her, despite her being slim and shapely: black leggings with high-heeled ankle boots, a long-sleeved sweatshirt and an oversized, crocheted pullover over it. She wore her long, glossy black hair in a ponytail and just a touch more make-up than was strictly necessary. John only hoped she had something more tasteful in that large carry-all of hers, or else their appearance at the reading would be slightly embarrassing.

On the other hand, a middle-aged woman desperately trying to still look young was as good a cover as any, he had to admit.

Aside from these considerations, the trip was deadly dull, between a morose Sherlock and an indifferent Sergeant Liu. By the time they had passed the Hampshire border, John was out of reading material and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man’s energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farmsteads peeked out from amidst the light green of the new foliage. 

Even through the closed window of the train car, John felt the invigorating effect of the reawakening nature and was happy to get out of the London fog at least a short time. While he never wanted to live everywhere else than in London, not for the long run anyway, he appreciated the fresh country air as much as every sane man; more so at times when a recent injury was paining him. 

Like now.

He only hoped that the dark picture Sherlock had painted about life in the countryside would prove to be an overly dramatic statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) This comment was inspired by a picture somewhere on the Net, showing the actress in a tux and a bow tie indeed.


	8. Readings & Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story.   
> The unnamed manager has been inspired by a very funny picture of Mark Gatiss I found by googling; one where he had glasses and ash blond hair indeed.  
> Brownie points for those who catch the Torchwood reference. ;)  
> My heartfelt thanks to my dear friend, Linda Hoyland, for the beta reading and the Brit-picking.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 08 – READINGS & REVELATIONS**

In Winchester they changed to the coach that took them to Otterbourne, which terminated at the bus stop right in front of _The White Horse Inn_. The inn, as John had learned from his internet research, was basically a traditional village pub, offering a wide range of pub classics and specials for diners and a few guest rooms for transient travellers. It was a long, two-storey building with a slated roof and two closed verandas on either side of the main entrance.

It was obvious at first sight that the building had recently undergone a thorough renovation. It was newly painted, in traditional colours, with a beautiful logo on the front of the building. When they stepped inside, they met with an open shelf of vintage memorabilia and old books. The furniture appeared vintage, too: low overstuffed leather sofas, mosaic-plated coffee tables in one area, while in the bar and the restaurant areas high-backed chairs stood around the heavy dining tables. Both of the verandas had an open fireplace and were furnished with small, round or rectangular grey tables and matching chairs.

“It is a useful technique, to separate the pub into small, more intimate spaces so that you do not walk straight into a big, intimidating room,” Sergeant Liu commented with obvious appreciation. 

“We take great pride on the friendly atmosphere of our house,” a sharp tenor voice said behind them, and turning around they faced the somewhat over-enthusiastic manager of the place, who had a startling resemblance to Mycroft Holmes – that is, if Mycroft Holmes had been very skinny, with lots of curly ash blond hair.

(Afterwards, John asked Sherlock if he might have previously unknown relatives in the Hampshire area. Sherlock’s glare of utter dismay made any verbal answer unnecessary. Sergeant Liu remained carefully blank-faced during the interlude, but her shoulders were shaking ever so slightly.)

“You are here for Mr. Rucastle’s reading, of course,” the manager said, handing them their keys.

John nodded. “He interviewed my unit in Afghanistan. I’m quite sure he won’t remember me – he met so many soldiers on so many battlefields – but I’m interested what he’s made of those interviews.”

That was the cover story the three of them had agreed upon in advance, which was why John had booked their room under his own name. _His_ interest could be convincingly explained.

“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Rucastle will be delighted, even if he doesn’t remember you personally,” the manager, whose name had escaped John, assured him. “He always speaks of the soldiers with great fondness and respect.”

“Do you know him well?” Sergeant Liu enquired, giving a very convincing impression of a devoted fan.

Unless she _was_ a devoted fan, of course. Even police officers had their heroes, and Jeff Rucastle was exactly the type of man that could make even the most hard-arsed woman swoon, with his boyish good looks and personal charisma.

“Oh, no, I’m afraid I can’t say that,” the manager admitted regretfully. “But we all know him from his reputation, of course. He’s the most famous person who’s lived in our modest little village since Chris Tremlett.”

“Famous cricketer,” Sergeant Liu explained, noticing Sherlock’s blank look. “He plays for _Surrey County Cricket Club_. He is a fast-medium bowler able to extract bounce on most surfaces.” 

“Indeed,” the manager said proudly. “Mr Tremlett started his playing career with Hampshire in 2000 and was awarded his county cap in 2004. He made his One Day International debut in 2005, and two years later played his first Test. Played three Tests in 2007 before injury interrupted his career, which is a crying shame.”

“Well, at least he moved to Surrey for the start of 2010 after struggling with that stubborn injury,” Sergeant Liu shrugged. 

Clearly, Jeff Rucastle was not her only hero, although John wouldn’t have taken her for a cricket fan – or a sports fan in general.

“Dull, and has nothing to do with our visit here,” Sherlock announced with an air of hideous boredom and affected superiority.

‘I’m afraid my friend isn’t into sport,” John told the manager apologetically.

The man gave them a befuddled look, obviously unable to imagine somebody – _anybody_ – not being interested in sport, but when he was met by Sherlock’s patented death glare, he decided that discretion was the better part of valour and refrained from making any comment.

“Let me get you settled,” was all he said and led them to their rooms.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Cricket, huh?” John asked, after they had all settled in said rooms and came together again in his and Sherlock’s to discuss their further tactics.

Sergeant Liu raised a fine eyebrow. “Not your cup of tea?”

John rolled his eyes. “They stop for meals. How can that be called _sport_?”

“Not during the Tests, they don’t,” she replied. “Still, I guess it may be a bit tame for a rugby player. What about football, though? Do you follow any of the teams?”

“Newcastle,” John admitted – and regretted it immediately, seeing the condescending pity in her dark eyes. “Hey, it’s not their fault that they’ve had such bad luck with injuries lately!”

“They’re a bunch of crybabies,” she said dismissively, and it was now John’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“I guess you follow the Gunners, then?” he knew that Lestrade was a devoted Arsenal fan; and so were several in his team.

She gave a rather unladylike snort. “Oh, _please_!”

Apparently, Detective Inspector Gregson’s team had other preferences when it came to football.

“Which one then?” John pressed on.

“Well, Spurs, of course,” she replied tartly.

“ _Tottenham_?” John said in disbelief. “You’re fond of lost causes, I see.”

Sherlock, who had endured their football-related discussion with tell-tale signs of desperate boredom, suddenly broke into a wide grin full of unholy glee.

“Don’t let Mycroft hear that,” he warned. “Unless you want to be deported to Siberia, that is. Or to the North Pole.”

John’s jaw hit the ground with an almost audible _thud_.

“ _Mycroft_? Mycroft Holmes is interested in _football_?”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, still grinning like a loon. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? No-one is supposed to know, of course; but you should hear him shouting at the television when Tottenham is losing.”

“Which team do _you_ follow?” Sergeant Liu asked.

“Why should I care about such a dull thing as football?” Sherlock asked back in honest surprise. “Twenty-two grown men chasing after one ball – how idiotic! Fencing… now, _that_ is a sport. It requires excellent hand-eye coordination, speed and dexterity – all things eminently usable in crime-fighting. But _football_? A total waste of time.”

“Says you,” John returned, just a little indignantly.

He might have his heart set on rugby since primary school, but he liked football well enough to be offended by Sherlock’s words.

“Says simple logic,” Sherlock replied. “Now, can we stop wasting our time and discuss the actual reason why we are here?”

“Which would be – what exactly?” Sergeant Liu asked; she had only been briefed in broad strokes and wanted details. _All_ the details.

“To speak with Miss Hunter, without the knowledge of Mr. Rucastle or his lovely personal assistant,” Sherlock replied simply.

“I presume you already have a plan,” John said.

“Of course I have, John, don’t be such an idiot,” Sherlock answered indignantly. “You and Sergeant Liu will distract Mr. Rucastle and Miss Toller while I’ll speak with Miss Hunter.”

“That’s your plan?” John asked in disbelief. “Any ideas _how_ we are supposed to distract them?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll think of _something_.”

“I don’t think you’d have any problems getting the attention of Mr Rucastle, Dr Watson,” Sergeant Liu said. “He’d be flattered that somebody in the military would go such lengths to meet him and listen to his reading. Vain people like to have an audience,” she added, with a side glance in Sherlock’s direction, “and the two of you have become minor celebrities due to your recent clash with Moriarty. It would stroke his ego that you’d still be interested in his book.”

“His… but not Miss Toller’s, I suppose,” John replied slowly. “Which means we need to get _her_ distracted in the first place.”

Mycroft’s enigmatic Anthea (or whatever her true name might have been) had taught him about the many uses of a skilled and devoted female PA. Even if she gave him the creeps.

Sergeant Liu nodded. “I’ve studied her profile; she appears to be very competent… and very jealous. I’ll easily distract her as an overzealous fan of Mr Rucastle’s, trying to get a private interview. That will annoy her, and while trying to keep me away from him, she won’t have the time to watch Miss Hunter.”

“Let’s hope so,” John muttered. “The last thing we want is to endanger her.”

“It would be unfortunate to lose a useful witness,” Sherlock agreed in his usual callous manner. “Do you know _where_ in the Village Hall will the reading take place?”

“In the Chamberlayne Suite,” Liu replied instead of John. “Apparently, they expect quite a crowd that they chose the largest hall of the three available for public lettings.”

“How do you know that?" John asked in surprise.

Sergeant Liu rolled her eyes. “You’re not the only one capable of Internet research, Doc. Besides, Mr Nightingale – the manager – gave me a flyer.”

For a moment John needed all his inner strength not to fall to the floor in hysterical laughter. That the manager looked like Mycroft Holmes in a blond wig was bad enough, but that name…

“ _Nightingale_?” he chortled. “Are you telling me that the over-eager puppy with Mycroft’s looks is called _Nightingale_?”

“Quite a few people in England are, Doc; it’s a perfectly respectable surname,” Sergeant Liu replied with a frown, clearly not understanding what was so funny.

Of course, she’d never met Mycroft Holmes.

But John had, and the mental image of Mycroft, in a blond wig and clad in a nurse’s uniform of the time of Florence Nightingale, sitting at somebody’s bedside with a syrupy smile on his face was simply too much. He collapsed on the sofa, howling, while tears of mirth were running down his face.

“John always had a rather juvenile sense of humour,” Sherlock declared, making his best Queen Victoria impression. “Ignore him, Sergeant, and see if we need to obtain tickets for the reading.”

“What keeps _you_ from doing it?” Liu asked tartly.

“The fact that _I_ might be recognized,” Sherlock riposted, without missing a beat. “There’s no risk of that when it comes to _you_.”

“Charming,” Liu muttered, but reached for her phone.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the end they didn’t need tickets for the reading but were warned to be there in time, as public interest seemed to be great and Chamberlayne Suite only seated two hundred. So they showed up half an hour early, just to be sure that they’d get good seats; even dressed up for the occasion.

John was wearing his best suit (or rather the better one of the two he owned) and even a tie, because he felt he owed Jeff Rucastle, one of the very few journalists who showed the soldiers in action actual respect, that much. Sherlock was dressed as always, but that didn’t mean much, as Sherlock _always_ looked posh… whenever he bothered to wear anything else than a dressing gown and his pyjama bottoms – or a bed sheet. Sergeant Liu actually looked smashing in the classic little black dress and slightly overdone make-up; John wouldn’t have expected her to clean up so well.

As usual, Sherlock refused to walk across the village, so they took a local taxi to the Village Hall. Apparently, other people got the same idea; the private parking lot of Chamberlayne Suite was already half full when they arrived. A young man who seemed to be the organizer of the event, led them then to the Suite itself.

It was a nice place, sixty-five feet long and thirty feet wide, with a wooden floor. It came with its own stage, which, as the young man explained, had a separate coloured lighting system, an electronic projector screen – which would be used to show Mr Rucastle’s photos illustrating the book during the reading – and excellent acoustics. The chairs had already been arranged the way they would be during concerts, and quite a few people were mingling in the room. The left side had been reserved for the press and was only accessible by showing a press ID, while the right side was kept free for the locals and guests who had a personal interest – like John himself.

Mr Rucastle was already there, wearing a fetching suit but no tie, chatting amiably with the locals. He was clearly a popular man in his chosen home – and as impressive as ever. _Larger than life_ was how he could be best described, in such mundane surroundings even more so than out in the war zone, and utterly charming. 

John spotted Miss Hunter standing next to him, as well as a beautiful black woman – presumably Miss Toller – but before he could have thought of any convincing way to approach either of them, Mr Rucastle suddenly interrupted himself and turned to him.

“Excuse me, sir, but you seem familiar from somewhere, Have we met before?”

“We have,” John replied, surprised and flattered in equal measure that the man would remember him, even vaguely. “You worked with our troops in Kandahar last year,” he held out his hand. “Captain John Watson from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Nice to meet you again.”

Mr Rucastle shook his hand with a wide, blinding white grin.

“Oh, Three Continents Watson, of course! I heard what happened to you, Captain; it’s a crying shame. They say you were the best trauma surgeon the RAMC’s had for a very long time.”

“You heard that I was shot?” once again, John was surprised. Not many people had, and even less of them had cared what would become of him.

Mr Rucastle nodded. “Yes, when I went back to tie up a few loose ends. A certain Sergeant Murray told me the whole sorry tale. I understand you saved many lives on that day.”

John shrugged. “And Bill Murray saved mine. That’s war for you, Mr Rucastle.”

“Jeff, please,” the star journalist insisted. “I’m honoured that you’d come out here for my little reading… or do you live nearby?”

“Oh, no, I still live in London,” John said. “But I saw an ad for your reading in the papers and wanted to come. I always liked your reports; you showed us respect. Not many people do that.”

“Unfortunately, many war zone reporters are like leeches; they make a living out of the suffering of others,” Jeff Rucastle agreed, his disgust apparent. “Listen, Captain, I must begin with the show soon, but why don’t we meet afterwards and chat about old times? The Chamberlayne Suite has a very nice bar, although I’m not sure we’d be undisturbed there. Actually, do you intend to go back to London right after the reading?”

“No, in truth I’m planning to stay for the weekend,” John said. “I’ve booked a room in _The White Horse_.”

“Even better!” Jeff Rucastle beamed. “Let’s meet after the show and then we’ll work out a private get-together for later. Perhaps you can visit me in my house."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Excellent work, John,” Sherlock commented a little later, when they took their seats in the audience. “I didn’t expect you to be able to get us into _The Copper Beeches_ so easily.”

“Firstly, Mr Rucastle invited _me_ , not all of us,” John reminded him. “Secondly, I didn’t do anything. He actually remembered me from Kandahar and came to me on his own volition. And thirdly, I’m not doing this for the case. I actually respect the man, and I’m looking forward to meeting him in private and talking to him about the war.”

Sherlock waved aside his objections. “Details. The important thing is that we’ll get into the house.”

“ _I’ll_ get into the house,” John corrected. “I’m not dragging you along without an invitation.”

“No need for that,” Sherlock said airily. “If Mr Rucastle is suitable distracted, I’ll manage on my own.”

John shook his head in mild exasperation, remembering all too well the numerous cases in which Sherlock’s breaking and entering had gone spectacularly wrong. The Blind Banker case, during which he had nearly got himself killed, had been only the beginning, not the exception.

But he soon forgot about it, at least for the moment, because Jeff Rucastle now appeared on the stage and had everyone’s attention captivated within seconds. Well… save for one Sherlock Holmes perhaps, who had no interest for such mundane things as war. 

Industrialized killing was beneath him, as he had repeatedly declared.

But John _was_ captivated. Mesmerized, even. The stories Jeff Rucastle was reading out loud from his book were the same ones he had experienced first-hand (or had already heard from his comrades-in-arms), but they were presented in a literary form that made them conceivable for an audience that lacked similar experiences.

It was a simple, straightforward style, without trying to be overly dramatic; even funny in some places while deeply touching in others. John suspected Miss Toller’s influence, as the original reports Jeff Rucastle had sent from the war zone _had_ been a little more suggestive. For a book, the somewhat dampened storytelling was much better, John found, even though Rucastle did his best to give his audience a dramatic presentation. He was clearly a performance artist at heart.

And all the while, the best photos he had taken in Iraq, in Afghanistan and in other war zones, were projected onto the large screen behind him.

The pictures, too, had been well-chosen. They did not deny the horrors of war but were clearly meant to show the life of the soldiers rather than the dead bodies in their wake. There _were_ pictures from the front line, yes, of bombed out houses and dead soldiers _and_ civilians; but also of the barracks, the field hospitals, of soldiers interacting with the locals and giving the children small gifts. Of soldiers eating in the canteen. Of soldiers playing cards when off duty.

To his utter surprise, John even spotted himself on one of the stills, in full military gear, medkit slung over his shoulder, waiting for the med-evac chopper to pick up him and his grievously wounded patient.

He remembered that day with perfect clarity. It had been in the previous year, only a month or so before he would get shot himself and lose both his careers. He looked at his own tense face on the photo; the chopper had been late and his patient, a rookie of twenty-too, critical, but in the end he _had_ managed to save the kid’s life… if not his leg.

He was roughly roused from his memories by Sherlock elbowing him in the ribs.

“Pay attention, John,” he hissed. “He’s talking about you!”

“ _What_?” John asked in shock tuning in Jeff Rucastle’s voice again.

“We might or might not condone our soldiers fighting wars in foreign countries,” the journalist was saying. “But whatever our personal opinion may be, we must realize something: those men and women are fighting for what they all hold in high esteem; what we all should hold in high esteem. For us, Americans, it is freedom, first and foremost. For you, Brits, it’s Queen and country. And those who do the fighting for us, to preserve our way of life in face of forces that want to destroy it, deserve our respect.”

The audience – Chamberlayne Suite was full to the bursting point by then – applauded. Jeff Rucastle waited for a moment, then raised his hand, signalling that he had more to say.

“You have seen those who protect our freedom in my photos,” he continued. “But today we are fortunate enough to welcome one of them among us here in the flesh. So allow me to introduce you Captain John Watson, from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Army doctor and a veteran of Afghanistan.”

John was petrified and looked around for a convenient black hole into which he could vanish forever. But Sherlock, that miserable traitor, pushed him to his feet, and Miss Toller was already coming to escort him onto the stage, where Jeff Rucastle shook his hand vigorously, right under the life-sized photo of himself that had hurriedly been put back onscreen.

The audience went quite mad with applause, and the press photographers pushed forward, flashing their cameras like crazy.

“I’m gonna kill you for this,” John told Jeff Rucastle in a low voice, only half-joking.

“Nonsense,” the journalist replied in the same manner. “This is a win-win situation: excellent publicity for my book, granted, but it also reminds the public of what we all owe people like you.”

“You don’t owe me a thing,” John told him. “Nobody does. I was just doing my duty like everyone else.”

“The medals you’ve been awarded during your tours speak a different language,” Rucastle said, almost gently. “One doesn’t get the Military Cross and Bar for simply doing one’s duty.”

“You really did a lot of research into my modest career,” John realized in surprise.

Rucastle shook his head. “There’s nothing modest in it, Captain; except your humble self. What you did when you were shot…”

“… is neither here nor there,” John interrupted. “I’m flattered by your interest, I truly am, but please understand that I don’t want my past to be discussed in public.”

“Of course,” Rucastle nodded. “I respect your decision, sir. I still hope, though, that you’ll have dinner at my place tonight. We may not socialize a lot, but Mrs Toller is an excellent cook nonetheless, and would be delighted to show off her skills.”

“I’d love to,” John replied. “A proper dinner is a rare occasion in my line of work.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Rucastle didn’t insult John’s intelligence by pretending that he wouldn’t know _what_ kind of work that was. “Has Mr Holmes come with you? I’d gladly extend the invitation…”

“I’ll ask, but I can’t promise anything,” John said. “He finds such things deadly dull; he only came with me because CAM News posted the announcement about this reading, and he has the worst suspicions about CAM News.” 

“Which only shows what an intelligent man he is,” Rucastle replied darkly. “CAM News deals in dirt, exclusively; and where they cannot find any, they create the impression of it.”

His bitter tone spoke of personal experience.

“Well,” John said. “I’ll ask Sherlock, and even if he refuses to come, I’ll gladly do so. But I think it would be better if I went back to my seat and you answered whatever questions the press might have.”

“You’re right, of course,” Rucastle flashed one of those wide, white grins at him. “See you tonight, then? About seven o’clock?”

“I’ll come,” John promised. “With or without Sherlock.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John, of course I’ll come,” Sherlock said later, clearly animated by the chance of entering _The Copper Beeches_ legally. “That’s the best opportunity to learn not only what Miss Hunter has found out but also what CAM News might have on Mr Rucastle.”

“Do you think Mr Rucastle is blackmailed?” Sergeant Liu asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Without doubt. That’s what CAM News _does_. I wonder if it has something to do with the mysterious disappearance of Melissa Moretti? Hopefully Miss Hunter has found more clues for us.”

“I find it a bit worrisome that Mr Rucastle knows about your presence; and your connection to Doctor Watson,” Sergeant Liu admitted.

Sherlock shrugged. “The man didn’t make himself an excellent name by being an idiot. At least not a complete idiot. Besides, I think he’s more worried about CAM News than about me. At least _I am_ discreet.”

“Since when?” John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock ignored him as usual.

“While we’re following the Rucastle thread, you should try to find out more about this Alex Fowler, the CAM News reporter that has been sent here for the reading,” he said to Sergeant Liu.

“Are you sure he’s here?” she asked.

Sherlock nodded and showed him a photo on his phone; one clearly copied from a press ID.

“This is the only picture I could find about him online,” he explained. “I’ll send it to your phone, together what little is known about him.”

“Do you think he’s a key player?” John asked doubtfully.

“Important enough for his name to be mentioned in that ad,” Sherlock said. “For some reason CAM News chose _him_ to come here. We need to know that reason.”

“I’ll give it my best try,” Sergeant Liu promised. “Go; get changed for your dinner. I’ll do some research in the meantime.”


	9. Dinner with Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story.  
> My heartfelt thanks to the most generous englishtutor for the beta reading and to my dear friend, Linda Hoyland, for the Brit-picking.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 09 – DINNER WITH SURPRISES**

Shortly before the appointed time – namely ten to seven – John and Sherlock arrived at _The Copper Beeches_ in style: by taxi. John had protested against the (in his eyes unnecessary) expense but, as usual, Sherlock refused to do anything as… pedestrian as walking across the village. If _not_ for a case, he despised legwork as much as his brother.

When they finally came up to the looming whitewashed monstrosity surrounded by woods on three sides, the mere sight of the house was enough to make John regret having accepted the invitation.

“This place is the ultimate rat trap,” he muttered unhappily, eyeing the clump of gnarled copper beeches just in front of the front door with suspicion. “I wonder what made a man like Jeff Rucastle choose such an ugly house to live in.”

“Perhaps _because_ it is like a trap,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be easy for someone to get in unnoticed… _or_ to leave.”

John gave him a sly glance. “I see you already have your theories about the reason.”

“Several theories; yet no actual facts,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Let’s hope that Miss Hunter has more for us. Do ring the bell, John, we’ve already dawdled long enough to raise suspicion.”

John rolled his eyes because really, could Sherlock not ring the bloody bell himself? Did he have to be too lazy even for that? But since the answer was obviously _yes_ , as always, the doctor did as he’d been asked.

Less than a minute later, the front door opened wide and Jeff Rucastle stood on the threshold, wearing old-fashioned slacks, complete with braces, with a blue shirt that showed off his eyes very flatteringly and a tobacco-coloured leather jacket… not to mention the widest possible smile.

“Welcome to _The Copper Beeches_ , Captain,” he said, shaking hands with John; then he turned to Sherlock. “Mr Holmes, good that you could make it. Come in, come in, dinner is just about to be served. Mrs Toller was most excited by the chance to prove her skills to a fresh audience. I hope you both like fish; she makes an excellent sea bass…”

Never stopping talking, he led them into the house. It didn’t escape John’s attention that he had _not_ offered to give them a tour of the place. It might have been an oversight, of course, but John didn’t think so. He’d have loved to hear Sherlock’s opinion in the matter, but that had to wait, unfortunately.

They were led directly to a very large and somewhat shadowy room that stretched along the entire front of the house, with three large windows reaching down to the floor. One half of the room had been arranged as the dining-room, connected to the adjoining kitchen by a serving hatch, through which a middle-aged, imperious black woman was looking expectantly – presumably the cook. This arrangement seemed to have happened long before Jeff Rucastle had bought the house, though, based on the age of the furniture.

The other half of the room was kept to serve its original purpose as the drawing-room. One of the high-backed chairs had been placed close to the central window, with its back turned towards it, while the other chairs were arranged around the coffee table. An old and probably valuable tea set had already been set out on the coffee table.

Miss Hunter was sitting in the lonely chair at the window, wearing an elegant and most likely expensive blue tea dress that didn’t seem to be her style at all. Her hair was short now, a rather unflattering bob cut, and she seemed tense, although she was hiding it well enough.

The only other person actually _in_ the room was the supremely elegant, beautiful black woman in her late twenties, whom Jeff Rucastle had introduced at the reading as his editor, Miss Letitia Toller. He also introduced Miss Hunter, who showed no sign of having met either John or Sherlock before.

“He used to work for your former commanding officer, Major Sholto,” Jeff Rucastle offered helpfully.

John chose not to correct him about the difference between an _ex_ -commanding officer and a _former_ commanding officer. That was something between Sherlock and him.

“Did she now?” he said instead, with well-feigned surprise. “I must compliment you, Miss Hunter. James Sholto is not an easy man to work for.”

Miss Hunter agreed with him, and in the next few minutes they exchanged anecdotes about the Major’s personal quirks, much to Jeff Rucastle’s amusement.

In the meantime the first course of the dinner – an excellent shrimp cocktail – was served, and they relocated to the other half of the room. Mrs Toller proved to be a very talented cook indeed, and Jeff Rucastle was as entertaining a host as one could have expected from somebody of his reputation. 

By the time they had finished the delicious cream soup and started the fish course, John and their host were getting on like a house on fire, and even Miss Hunter relaxed enough to laugh with them occasionally. Only Miss Toller barely cracked a smile; she was watching her surroundings like a hawk. Sherlock, as usual when in observation mode, all but melded into the background.

It was he, therefore, who first noticed a bearded, olive-skinned man standing in the Southampton Road, looking in the direction of the house. The road being an important highway, there were usually people there. This man, however, was leaning against the railings that bordered the field in front of the house, as if trying to glare in the inside through one of the tall windows. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties and was wearing jeans and a sports jacket.

He also had a professional-looking camera hanging from one shoulder.

Observant as she clearly was, Miss Toller soon spotted the man as well – most likely by following Sherlock’s stare.

“Jeff,” she said quietly. “That bothersome reporter is here again.”

“Where?” Jeff Rucastle asked with a frown.

“Standing on the road and trying to peer into the house,” Miss Toller replied with clear annoyance.

Jeff Rucastle rolled his eyes. “Dear God, some of them never give up, do they? Miss Hunter, do turn around and motion him to go away, please.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to take no notice?” Miss Hunter asked.

Jeff Rucastle shook his head. “Nah; he’d just keep loitering here. Do me the favour and wave him away like that,” and he made shooing motions with his hands.

Miss Hunter shrugged but rose from her chair and made a few energetic shooing motions of her own. After a moment or two, the mysterious visitor simply left.

“It must be odd for you, being on the receiving end of the interest of the press,” John commented, trying valiantly to break the tension in the room with a joke.

Jeff Rucastle gave him a somewhat insulted look. “I assure you, Captain, not all of us are such pains in the ass; as you may have learned first-hand.”

“Do you know the man?” John asked. 

Jeff Rucastle shook his head. “Not personally. But we’ve caught him watching the house several times during the last six months or so. I’ve already alerted the police but there’s nothing they can do, since the guy doesn’t exactly _enter_ the property. He’s just standing right outside and looking at the house. He hasn’t even tried to take photos so far. Just stands there and gets on our nerves.”

“And you have absolutely no idea who he is or what he wants from you?” When given a lead, John could be like a dog with a bone: not letting go till he got his answers.

“Not a clue,” Jeff Rucastle admitted. “Granted, I’ve gained a certain fame as a war reporter, but I’m still not a celebrity; and as far as I know, the man is practically unknown, even within our branch.”

“So you _had_ him checked out,” John went on unerringly.

“Of course I had; wouldn’t you do he same in my place?” Jeff Rucastle replied. “But I had no luck with my enquiries; no-one seems to know the man, not even his name. Either he’s an absolute newcomer… or someone’s best dark horse.”

“His name is Alex Fowler.”

Everyone looked at Sherlock in surprise; they’d all but forgotten about his presence. “He started working for CAM News six months ago.”

For a moment Jeff Rucastle froze; it was really just for a moment. Had John not watched him closely, he’d have missed it.

“How do you know that, Mr Holmes?” the journalist asked.

“Easy,” Sherlock whipped out his phone and showed their host the admittedly low-quality photo of the man in question. “When John read me the announcement of your reading, it was mentioned that CAM News would send their Mr Alex Fowler to the event. I found it suspicious that CAM News would show such a definite interest in your book – it isn’t exactly their area – so I thought that checking out the reporter could be helpful.”

“And? Was it?” Miss Hunter asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “It depends on what one considers helpful. All I’ve learned is the fact that he came from the States a little more than half a year ago and started working for CAM News practically on the day of his arrival.”

“He was invited, then,” John deduced.

Sherlock nodded. “Most likely, yes. Which it… _interesting_ , to say the least. Why would CAM News invite an American journalist of no particular fame to move to London and work for them? Unless…”

“… unless he was specifically hired to spy on Mr Rucastle… on Jeff,” John corrected himself.

Sherlock nodded again.

“Exactly. Good thinking John; you’re finally starting to use your brain,” he turned to their host. “Tell me, Mr Rucastle: do you happen to be hiding any dirty little secrets CAM News might be interested in?”

There was… _something_ again, a barely noticeable flicker across that handsome face, a momentary freezing of Jeff Rucastle’s wide, white smile, that answered the question without any words. Again, John would have missed it, had he not watched the man very carefully.

“Nothing that I can think of,” their host answered, just a second too late to be entirely convincing.

For an endless moment Sherlock stared at him with the hypnotic intensity of a snake just before the final strike. Then he shrugged.

“It’s your choice to keep your secrets,” he said. “You should remember, though, that I might be your only chance to rid yourself of this man. That is what I _do_.”

“And I appreciate the offer, Mr Holmes, I really do, but you’re mistaken,” Jeff Rucastle replied with his widest, most winning smile. “I’m not in need of any outside help to deal with such a minor annoyance. Now, why don’t we drop this unpleasant topic and enjoy Mrs Toller’s excellent cooking? I’m sure the roast course will be every bit as delicious as the previous ones.”

That wasn’t something the guests could have argued with, and so they ate the roast course, which was excellent indeed, in relative silence, with only a few appreciative remarks about the meal.

By the time they relocated to the drawing-room for coffee and desserts, the tension had more or less dissipated, though, so that they could enjoy the astonishing variety of biscuits, shortbreads and small cakes that Mrs Toller had managed to bake in a single afternoon. Jeff Rucastle invited the worthy dame over from the kitchen, no matter how much she protested about it not being appropriate for her to sit at the table with the guests. She did seem to be pleased by the many compliments she was given, though, so the evening ended on a positive note for everyone.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“So, what do you think?” John asked upon their return to _The White Horse Inn_. “Aside from the fact that Jeff Rucastle is lying about not having any secrets that would interest CAM News, that is.”

“Or that he doesn’t know Alex Fowler… or whatever his true name might be,” Sherlock added, dropping into one of the large, overstuffed armchairs gracefully.”

“What do you mean his true name?” John frowned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, John, are you completely blind? That man at the house was clearly Italian; Italo-American, to be more precise, and a wealthy one, too, if his clothes are any indication.”

“I didn’t see anything unusual about his clothes,” John said.

“Because, as usual, you see but don’t _observe_ ,” Sherlock returned. “I couldn’t see him very well, but I’m sure that his clothes were of very good quality, coming from what in the States is considered a good label. Certainly a great deal better and more expensive than what a small society reporter, and a new one in the UK at that, could afford.”

“Which leads us back to the Moretti family of middle-class mobsters,” John realised.

Sherlock nodded. “Obviously. Gregson mentioned that Melissa Moretti had brothers who had a hard time getting their father’s modest criminal business under control after Moretti Senior’s death. That was seven years ago; who can say that they haven’t looked for their sister during all these years?”

“But what could Jeff Rucastle’s role be in all this?” John mused. “Do you think he was the mysterious – and undesirable – husband Melissa Moretti ran off with? That Jack Harper?”

“If that was his real name,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. “He definitely _has_ something to do with Melissa Moretti’s disappearance. The photographs Miss Hunter found prove that beyond question. _What_ that role might be… we’ll find out, eventually.”

“And this Alex Fowler character – is he one of Melissa Moretti’s brothers?”

“That, or somebody hired by them,” Sherlock was busily texting. “Let’s hope Liu has the mother wit to take a few good photographs of him; and that Gregson can get some of the Moretti brothers through his cousin in the States. Then we’ll know for certain.”

“If we can see any of his features under that beard,” John muttered.

Sherlock waved off his concern. “I’m used to see a face under any possible kind of disguise. Besides, that beard was clearly a fake.”

“Are you sure?” John asked doubtfully. “He did have a beard on that ID photo, too.”

“A short, neatly trimmed beard, yes, not such an oversized piece of fur, try to pay attention to detail,” Sherlock retorted impatiently. “Since his natural beard obviously wasn’t enough to conceal his features, he used that ridiculous fake one – through which he managed to draw more attention to himself than he’d have done without it. But most criminals are idiots; especially mobsters who’re used to getting what they want with the help of brute force.”

John shook his head. “It never ceases to amaze me how you can read a man’s life story by the way he does his tie.”

Sherlock gave him an amused look.

“The man didn’t _wear_ a tie, John,” he said with twinkling eyes.

John grinned back at him. “Such minute details are your area of expertise; I think we’ve established that repeatedly. So, it seems that we are on something here. Too bad that you couldn’t speak with Miss Hunter in private.”

“A minor setback,” Sherlock replied airily. “She’s a clever woman; I’m sure she’ll find a way to contact us.”

He opened his laptop and connected it to the free WiFi of the inn, bringing up his own website. A moment later a quiet ping sound announced the arrival of new mail.

“Oh!” Sherlock clapped his hands in delight. “And here it is!”

“Here is _what_?” John asked in exasperation.

“A fairly detailed letter from Miss Hunter,” Sherlock explained.

“Let me see it!” John leaned over his shoulder to read the letter that was fairly detailed indeed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Dear Mr Holmes,

I’m writing you this letter in the hope that I’ll have the chance to get into the village proper, where I can connect to the Internet. There is no phone signal or internet connection in _The Copper Beeches_ , you see, so I have to store all my mail on my phone.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you about a new discovery of mine. I’m naturally observant, as you may have noticed, and so I soon had a pretty good plan of the house in my head. There is one wing that appears both uninhabited and unused. The door opening into this suite faces the one that leads into the quarters of the Tollers, but it is invariably locked.

One day, however, as I came down the stairs, I met Mr Rucastle coming through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face that made him a very different person to the charming, jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His face was deathly pale, his expression tense and his eyes cold like ice. Frankly, it was a terrifying sight. Fortunately, he didn’t see me. He locked the door and hurried past me without noticing me which was a great relief.

My curiosity was piqued, though; so when I went out for a walk in the grounds, I strolled around to the side from which I could see the windows of this part of the house. There are four of them in a row, three of which are simply dirty; the fourth, though, is shuttered up. They seem all deserted, but I can’t shake off the suspicion that whatever secret Mister Rucastle may be keeping, it’s hidden in that suite of rooms.

I tried to ask Miss Toller, very casually, about the empty wing, and she answered that Mr Rucastle, prefers traditional photography to the digital methods, and has made his darkroom up there. I don’t doubt that it’s true; I doubt, however, that it’s the _whole_ truth. There’s something very fishy about those rooms, but I don’t dare to ask any more questions – not yet anyway.

If you could return to _The Copper Beeches_ on the evening after Mr Rucastle’s reading, I’ll try to let you in unseen. Mr Rucastle and Miss Toller will be going to London in the morning, to finish the deal about his book, and Mr Toller is either stone drunk or off to his girlfriend by 7 o’clock, every time Mr Rucastle isn’t at home, so it should be doable. You _should_ search those rooms, Mr Holmes, and find out what’s going on.

I’ll be waiting for you behind the house at ten to seven.

Yours, Wanda Hunter

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Well,” Sherlock commented, “It’s good that you’ve booked our rooms for the whole weekend. This is an invitation I intend to accept.”

John gave him an alarmed look. “You can’t be seriously planning to break into _The Copper Beeches_ , Sherlock! Not with Gregson’s watchdog breathing down our necks!”

“Technically, it isn’t house-breaking, since Miss Hunter will let us in,” Sherlock declared with an air of bored superiority.

“Yes, it is, and you know it!” John snapped. “Miss Hunter isn’t authorised to let in _anyone_ , least of all us; and in case you’ve forgotten, this is not London where you can manipulate Lestrade to let you get away with a lot of things other coppers would arrest you for at once.”

“Well, in that case we should see that we don’t get caught,” Sherlock clearly still didn’t see the problem.

“That might be harder than you imagine,” John warned. “Or haven’t you noticed the small outhouse near the side door? By the noises coming from there I’m sure Rucastle has a watchdog… and not exactly a small one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, of course I’ve noticed it,” Sherlock replied with a derisive snort. “But I don’t think we’ll be in any danger. Firstly, Miss Hunter wouldn’t ask us to come if there would be any danger for us – or for herself. And secondly, you _have_ brought your gun, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” John said. “But I won’t shoot Mr Rucastle’s dog, just because you want to enter his house to search it without his permission.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked in honest confusion. “It’s just a dog; you didn’t have any problems shooting that cabbie on the first day we met.”

“Exactly,” John said. “It’s just a dog, doing its job, not a serial killer. I’m not killing it without a reason.”

“Saving me from being mauled by it _is_ a justified reason,” Sherlock pointed out a little indignantly, but John wasn’t buying it.

“Not if the danger has been created by your impossible behaviour. Besides, have you thought of the fact that if I fire my gun near the house everyone within will run out to see what’s going on? Army issue pistols don’t come with a silencer, you know.”

“Shooting the dog will only be a last-ditch solution,” Sherlock stated. “I’m sure Miss Hunter will find a way to smuggle us in unnoticed.”

“Your word in God’s ear,” John muttered unhappily.

He had a bad feeling about this. A _very_ bad feeling. But he knew from experience that nothing could stop Sherlock once he launched in a path. He could only hope that they’d all come out of this case unharmed.


	10. With the Weapons of a Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For visuals: Alex Fowler is “played” by the late Mark Frankel. Imagine him as he appeared playing the lead role in the TV-series of “Kindred: The Embraced”. The character’s true name is also borrowed from the TV-series, just because it sounds great.  
> My heartfelt thanks to the most generous englishtutor for the beta reading and to my dear friend, Linda Hoyland, for the Brit-picking.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 10 – WITH THE WEAPONS OF A WOMAN**

If Sergeant Liu had been worried about how to make Mr Alex Fowler’s acquaintance – she wasn’t, not really; she was a fairly straightforward person and if she had to, she’d have simply walked up to the man and addressed him directly – it soon turned out that she didn’t need to. be concerned Apparently, Mr Fowler was on a reconnaissance mission of his own and had selected her, of all people, as his most promising source of information.

He also turned out to know more about her and her travelling companions than he – strictly speaking – ought to have.

On the evening of Jeff Rucastle’s reading, while Holmes and Watson were having dinner at _The Copper Beeches_ , Sergeant Liu was sitting in the bar of _The White Horse Inn_ , nursing a drink, having just finished a light supper and reading the evening papers provided for the guests of the _Inn_ , when somebody stepped up to her table.

“May I join you?” a somewhat hoarse voice with a strong American accent asked. 

With a strong American accent, spoken by an Italian, to be more accurate.

She looked up at the man wearing a well-made, obviously expensive sports suit and a bushy black beard… clearly a fake one. His hair was black too, narrowing into a widow’s peak in the centre of his forehead, and his eyes were strangely mismatched: one black and one brown. His sharp features – what little was visible of them under the fake beard – were ruggedly handsome, despite the somewhat big nose, and he was practically dripping with sexual magnetism.

Under different circumstances Liu would have found him utterly irresistible.

She noticed, however, the well-concealed shoulder holster under the sports jacket, and her instinct warned her that the man was dangerous. She had started her career at the department dealing with organized crime and would have recognised the man as a mobster even without Holmes’s forewarning. Of course, she could have arrested the man on the basis of him carrying a firearm, it being illegal in the UK and all, but that wouldn't serve her interests at the moment.

She wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip through her fingers, though. She’d been a copper for fifteen years; she knew how to play the game.

“Do I know you?” she asked innocently, after having gestured him to sit down.

The man shook his head.

“Unlikely. I don’t get sent to crime scenes; not exactly my area,” he made a little half-bow that would have looked comical, coming from most men. On him, it seemed as natural as breathing. “I’m Alex Fowler from CAM News, by the way.”

“Sergeant Joan Liu,” Liu replied; since the man apparently knew she was with the police, it would have been suspicious – not to mention useless – trying to deny it. “Nice to meet you, Mr Fowler.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Fowler said gallantly. “May I ask what’s a pretty lady like you doing here, out in nowhere? Are you a fan of Jeff Rucastle?”

Liu shrugged. “Not really, although I did find his war-zone reports interesting; and his photographs are amazing. But I’m on babysitting duty, actually.”

“Oh?” Fowler said; her directness obviously surprised him. “Keeping an eye on Sherlock Holmes, I presume?”

Liu shrugged again. “ _Somebody_ has to. The man may be a genius, but he’s also a menace.”

“And you’ve drawn the short straw.” Fowler grinned.

Liu nodded. “Something like that, yeah. I’m one of the few at the Yard who can deal with him… most of the time anyway. He’s a force of nature.”

“I can’t imagine a crime complex enough to catch the interest of Sherlock Holmes,” Fowler said. “Not in a sink hole like Otterbourne. Nothing ever happens here.”

“Most likely not,” Liu agreed. “I haven’t been here a full day yet and I’m already bored out of my wits. I can imagine Holmes climbing the walls. But he’s willing to do a lot for Dr. Watson’s sake, and Watson was the one who wanted to come. He met Jeff Rucastle in Afghanistan, while still with the Army, and is apparently a great admirer of his work.”

“I still don’t understand why _you_ had to come,” Fowler said, after ordering fresh drinks for them: a double whiskey for himself, on the rocks, and another cocktail for Liu.

She nodded her thanks and grinned. “Have you ever seen Holmes deal with the press? It’s a disaster of epic proportions. The Detective Chief Inspector didn’t want him to cause a scandal; New Scotland Yard can’t afford another spectacular fall-out with the press. Not again. Not because of Holmes.”

“You don’t like him, do you?” Fowler grinned.

“Nobody _likes_ him,” Liu corrected. “But we tolerate him ‘cause he’s _useful_. That’s all, though.”

Their drinks were served at that moment and Fowler excused himself briefly to go to the gents. Liu used her chance to spike his drink with a few drops of a mild sedative. It was illegal, of course, even though she wasn’t part of an official investigation, and it was mere coincidence that she had the stuff in her handbag at all. She did sometimes use it on highly aggressive suspects when undercover; it was basically harmless and only served to make people more cooperative… and _talkative_.

She knew that nothing of what she might be able to learn under such circumstances could be used at court as evidence. But right now it was more important to learn _anything_ at all. The American reporter – if he _was_ a reporter indeed – might know things about Jeff Rucastle’s past that no-one in Britain was aware of, and Jeff Rucastle was the actual subject of their private little investigation.

Fortunately for her, Alex Fowler took his sweet time in the gents. Time enough for the drops to dissolve in his whiskey completely. He was probably reporting back to whoever had sent him; either his boss at CAM News or the Moretti family.

Liu used the time to do the same. Detective Inspector Gregson was waiting for an update, too. There wasn’t much to report just yet, but she hoped that _that_ would change, soon.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“So, why are you here, then?” she asked when Fowler (or whatever his true name might be) returned to the table. “Cultural events, especially such minor ones, usually fall under the radar of CAM News.”

Which was the understatement of the year, of course. CAM News dealt exclusively in scandals, the revelations of dirty secrets and barely concealed blackmail. They always managed to stay just on the right side of legality, though, so there was nothing the police could have done against them, much to Detective Inspector Gregson’s annoyance.

“True,” Fowler took a healthy sip from his spiked whiskey. “But it’s not the event itself that's of interest; it’s the person of Jeff Rucastle.”

Liu pretended to understand. “He’s made quite the name for himself with his war-zone reports. Dr Watson keeps telling me that he’s one of the few journalists who treat the fighting men with respect.”

“That might well be so,” Fowler took another sip from his drink. “I don’t usually care for his work as a war-zone reporter, though. I’m more interested in his past.”

“Does he have one?” Liu asked in well-faked surprise. “I must admit that I’ve done some brief research on him, due to Dr Watson’s interest in him, but I came up with nothing. Well… _almost_ nothing.”

“Hardly surprising,” Fowler downed the rest of his drink in one gulp and ordered another one. “Up till ten years ago Jeff Rucastle didn’t even exist.”

Liu looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean _didn’t exist_? People don’t appear fully grown out of thin air.”

“They do, if they choose to take on a new identity,” Fowler replied, accepting his fresh drink from the waitress with a nod.

“You mean he was part of the witness protection program?” Liu frowned.

Fowler shook his head and drank. Another side effect of the sedative was that it made one thirsty.

“Oh, no,” he said darkly. “I mean he changed his name to escape the consequences of what he’s done.”

“Which would be… what exactly?” Liu inquired.

“I don’t know; not exactly,” Fowler confessed. “But I do know that he appeared out of nowhere shortly after my… after a wealthy young woman went missing, with all her money.”

“And you believe there was a connection,” Liu said; it wasn’t a question.

Fowler shrugged and ordered another drink.

“She married a con man none of u… none of her family had known before, and was never seen again. It would be too much of a coincidence, don’t you thing?”

“Perhaps,” Liu allowed; the repeated self-corrections hadn’t escaped her attention. Fowler was clearly connected to the Moretti family in some way. “But in a country as huge as the States, countless young women marry undesirable suitors… and vice versa. Do you have any actual proof that Jeff Rucastle and that man, what’s his name….?”

“Jack Harper.”

“That Mr Rucastle and Jack Harper are one and the same person?”

Fowler shook his head. He was on his fourth drink already and more than a little drunk, thanks to the combined effects of the sedative and the alcohol.

“What I have is a low-quality, black and white photo from a security camera,” he said. “It’s more than ten years old and the man has a different hairdo, but I’m fairly sure it’s of Jack Harper, taken right outside a chapel in Vegas.”

“A wedding photo?”

“Not quite; although the bride can be seen in the background. Barely recognisable, but we knew my… that the young woman gone missing had eloped with her boyfriend to Vegas.”

“And that photo shows Jeff Rucastle?” Liu asked doubtfully.

Fowler ordered another drink. “No; it shows somebody who looks a lot like him and who we _think_ might be Jack Harper. Who, by the way, happened to be a freelance journalist in Chicago some ten years ago, working for small, independent papers.”

“And you came over the pond just to check if it’s him?”

Fowler nodded and drank. “When Jeff Rucastle began to make a name for himself as a war-zone reporter, eventually his photo started appearing next to his articles. That was when we became suspicious. So the family sent me over to take a closer look. I mean, I was flexible; and I owed my uncle that much. He raised me like I was his own, after all.”

“Which family?” Liu asked.

Fowler shook his head. “It’s safer for you _not_ to know. You’re smart and pretty, I’d hate to endanger you. Let’s just say I was sent to confirm Jeff Rucastle’s identity and leave it there.”

“And you’re wearing this ridiculous fake beard so that Mr Rucastle won’t recognise you?”

Fowler reflexively touched his cheek. “Is it really so obvious?”

“I used to be an undercover cop; I recognise fake appliances,” Liu replied. “And if I can do so, Holmes can as well.”

“Perhaps, but why would he care? He didn’t even meet Jack Harper before. Nobody really did.”

“Jeff Rucastle,” Liu corrected. “You can’t know for sure that he’s indeed Jack Harper; not yet anyway. And while it’s true that Holmes wouldn’t care, one way or another, Dr Watson certainly would.”

“So what?” Fowler shrugged and downed Drink #6.

Liu rolled her eyes. “I told you that Dr Watson is biased when it comes to Jeff Rucastle; and that Holmes is willing to do a lot for him. As far as I know the good doctor is the only friend Holmes has ever had.”

“Interesting,” Fowler commented after a length pause; his thought processes had already slowed down considerably. “So they are not, you know…”

“God, no!” Liu laughed. “You of all people should know that one shouldn’t believe the speculations in the press.”

“They do seem awfully close, though,” Fowler pointed out.

“They _are_ ,” Liu agreed. “Firstly, though, Dr Watson is quite the ladies’ man; he’s gone through three of four girlfriends since moving in with Holmes. Who, in turn, is completely asexual. He’s only interested in his detective work and looks down at the rest of mankind with utter contempt.”

“Save for one Dr Watson,” Fowler said.

“Yeah, well, every genius needs an audience,” Liu answered with a shrug. “And Dr Watson gives Holmes exactly what Holmes needs: somebody to rely on _and_ an audience. A thoroughly impressed one.”

“It makes one wonder why, though,” Fowler giggled a little; all that alcohol plus the sedative finally beginning to show some serious effect. “Why would anyone want to live with a self-proclaimed sociopath like Holmes?”

“I asked myself the same question when he began dragging Dr Watson with him to the crime scenes,” Liu admitted, hoping that her openness would make Fowler more talkative, too; it wasn’t so that she’d reveal any big secrets about the consulting detective and his faithful shadow, after all. “So I did a little research on the good doctor.”

“Found out anything interesting?”

“Define _interesting_. He used to be a trauma surgeon – a very good one – and a career soldier. That’s _two_ distinguished careers gone to hell when he was shot. He’s used to danger and he likes to be useful. Holmes provides him with the adrenaline fix, so that he doesn't miss the action so much; plus he gets to patch Holmes up whenever he gets in trouble, which is often. Sometimes he patches up one of us, too. It gives him a purpose, much more than treating headaches and sore throats as a local GP would.”

“So you say they’re actually equal partners?” Fowler giggled again. “I wouldn’t have thought it. Dr Watson seems so… harmless, following the madman everywhere like a puppy.”

Liu shook his head. “Don’t let those fluffy jumpers mislead you. John Watson is many things, but harmless isn’t one of them. He plays rugby with people twice his size and I saw him take down a murderer that was bigger than a wardrobe, without breaking a sweat.”

“Small… guys can be… be fierce… sometimes,” Fowler agreed, his speech losing coherence slowly but steadily.

“Especially with proper motivation, as everyone who threatens Holmes in Dr Watson’s presence will learn swiftly,” Liu agreed.

Fowler nodded a few times, each time a little more slowly… then he landed with his face on the tabletop and stopped moving entirely.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
That was the exact moment Liu had been waiting for. Following her carefully laid plan, she walked to the reception and showed the young man behind the counter her badge.

“Call me a taxi, please. I think I’d better take this gentleman back to his hotel. He could be mugged when he tries to get home alone in the state he is.”

The young man gave the badge a cursory look and did as he’d been told. He even helped Liu to put the softly snoring Fowler into the taxi, which was a good thing. Not only did he spare her a lot of effort this way, she also had a witness who could give testimony that Fowler was indeed stone drunk and she had only played Good Samaritan to him.

Having done her research beforehand, she knew that Fowler had booked a room at _The Old Forge_ , another inn in the village that was originally indeed a forge or 'smithy' and in the 18th century home to one of the country's few female blacksmiths, as the taxi driver helpfully told her. She found that little piece of information interesting, albeit irrelevant. 

In any case, it was a beautiful place, and the room, to which the driver helped her drag the unresponsive Fowler – in exchange for a good tip, of course – seemed even more comfortable than hers in _The White Horse_. They draped the unconscious man over his unmade bed, fully clothed, to sleep off his intoxication, and then the driver left.

Once alone with Fowler, Liu put on disposable latex gloves and began to search the room quickly but thoroughly. Even though she knew that the man would sleep at least two hours yet, due to the combined effect of the alcohol and the sedative, she couldn’t afford to stay in his room for too long, without raising the receptionist’s suspicions. She had no jurisdiction here, after all; and neither did she have a warrant.

She was careful not to move anything, unless I was absolutely necessary. She knew from past experience how hard it was to put things back to their place _exactly_ the way they had been. Despite widespread belief, it was almost impossible. Especially in a rented room that was cleaned daily, so that no imprints in the dust would help with the repositioning of the moved items. Therefore she rather took photographs with her smartphone whenever it was possible.

She did search Fowler’s briefcase and small holdall, though, and the results were… interesting, to put it mildly. She found two different passports, both of which clearly belonged to Fowler. One for the name he was currently using, the other one for somebody called Julian Luna. In both cases, the man on the passport photo was clearly Fowler, even though in the one for Julian Luna he looked a great deal younger… and even more attractive.

She also found an American driver’s licence, also for Julian Luna, with the same photo and a Chicago address on it, a press ID for Alex Fowler, and a little black address book with lots of names in it. Next to most names were American addresses, mainly from Chicago, but from other places, too. The British ones were all from Central London, with the sole exception of a Hampstead one; this one was simply marked _Appledore_ , instead of an actual name.

Liu took photographs of the documents as well as of every single page of the address book with any actual addresses on it; _and_ of the bunch of old photos she found in Fowler’s briefcase. Some of those were of the mysterious Melissa Moretti, others of unknown men in tailored suits that looked like background extras from that mafia film, _The Godfather_. She had never seen them before, but was fairly certain that Detective Inspector Gregson’s cousin would be able to make sense of them.

She also found the very picture Fowler had mentioned: the one of the bloke in front of a Vegas chapel, the bloke with the vague resemblance to Jeff Rucastle.

Searching the holdall, she found another gun, one of a much larger calibre than the one in Fowler’s shoulder holster. She took photographs of both guns and wrote down their serial numbers, just in case. She sniffed the barrels and judged that neither of the weapons had been fired used lately… not that she’d have expected them to be. Alex Fowler, or Julian Luna, whichever the man’s true name might be, was clearly after Jeff Rucastle, who was currently having dinner with Holmes and Dr Watson and therefore quite safe, at least for the time being.

Liu regretted that she couldn’t take Fowler’s fingerprints. That would have been useful, but she didn’t have the necessary equipment; and even if she had, she wouldn’t have been able to remove the ink from the man’s fingers completely. So the fingerprint on the driver’s licence would have to do, even though it would be one hell of a job trying to compare it with the database, since all she had was a photograph.

Checking one last time that she hadn’t left any incriminating evidence of her search, she removed the latex gloves, pushed them to the bottom of her handbag and walked down to the reception of the inn.

“I’m afraid Mr Fowler won’t be able to leave his room before morning,” she told the woman behind the desk. “He had one or two more drinks than he could safely hold. Call me if he causes any problems; I’m staying in _The White Horse_ for two more days.”

She gave the receptionist her card and left _The Old Forge_. It was time to re-check the evidence she had gathered; and to forward it to Detective Inspector Gregson.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Fortunately, free WiFi in all rooms was part of the service in The White Horse, so she could set up a video conference with her boss via Skype. Unlike Detective Inspector Lestrade, who preferred old-fashioned police work, Tobias Gregson was very technically savvy and didn’t hesitate to use the advantages of 21st century technology. 

It made things so much easier sometimes.

“I don’t have to tell you that what you’ve done today was highly illegal, do I?” Gregson asked sourly. “Officially, I can’t even know about it.”

Liu nodded. “Of course, sir; which is why I’ll send everything I’ve found to your private address. But at least we’ll know whom exactly we’re dealing with, once you had the data checked. It isn’t so as if we could in any way object to Mr Fowler’s presence in Otterbourne… on in the country in general. He hasn’t actually done anything wrong yet.”

“Save for the carrying of illegal weapons,” Gregson said grimly. “I’ll have it checked, of course, but I doubt he’d have a permit for them. Not in the UK anyway.” 

“True, but we don’t officially know about those weapons,” Liu reminded him. “I didn’t have a warrant, so even if he shoots Mr Rucastle tomorrow, my evidence won’t hold stand up before the court, you know that, too, sir.”

“Sadly, I do,” Gregson sighed. “Still it's better than nothing. Has Holmes figured out anything yet?”

“I can’t tell, sir. He and Dr Watson are still at _The Copper Beeches_ ; they’ve been invited to dinner. I’ll talk to them when they come back… well, to Dr Watson, most likely. At least he knows how to be civil.”

“Keep an eye on them,” Gregson said. “If I know Holmes, and I do, he’s planning something stupid. He always does.”

“Like what, sir?”

“Like breaking into that house afterwards, as I doubt he’d get the chance to speak to his informant during dinner.”

“I see. Should I try to prevent him sir?” Liu asked.

“You can’t hold back a force of nature,” Gregson replied tiredly. “Besides, he can do things we cannot, and we might yet benefit from his complete disregard for the rules, since we can’t change him. Just keep an eye on him; and _if_ he goes to break into the house, I want _you_ to be there, too.”

“ _Me_ , sir?” Liu echoed, a little shocked. “I can’t afford to take part in a crime!”

“Of course not,” Gregson agreed. “But you can arrest him promptly and whisk him away before the local police get there.”

“Perhaps,” Liu allowed. “He won’t like the idea, though.”

“Which is why you won’t tell him a thing,” Gregson said. “Just follow him and intervene if you have to. I’ll send an unmarked police car down there immediately, so that you can have the means to escape, should the shit hit the fan.”

“And if it doesn’t, sir?”

“Then wait until Holmes is done and return with them by train. And send me that evidence right away,” he broke the connection without a further word.

“Yes, sir,” Liu answered the empty screen.

Then she took out her phone and forwarded everything to Gregson’s private address, with the usual request for acknowledgement. Less than a minute later the phone _ping_ ed, signalling the arrival of the automated response, and she pocketed it again. 

She didn’t dare to send the photos to her own laptop just yet, as she couldn’t carry the laptop on her all the time. For now, the phone had to do.

“Well, then,” she murmured to herself, activating the tiny surveillance camera she’d installed in Holmes and Watson’s room earlier. “Now we wait.”


	11. The Empty Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story. The _Royal Hampshire County Hospital_ in Winchester truly exists.  
>  My heartfelt thanks to the most generous englishtutor for the beta reading and to my dear friend, Linda Hoyland, for the Brit-picking. All remaining mistakes are mine. I’m too stubborn for my own good sometimes.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 11 – THE EMPTY ROOM**

As Miss Hunter had told them, Jeff Rucastle and his beautiful editor did indeed leave Otterbourne on the next day around noon for London. John watched them board the coach to Winchester from the window of their room, which happened to look over the street and provided him with a convenient view at the bus stop.

“They’re gone,” he told Sherlock, who was lounging across the sofa apathetically, with his feet propped on the back while his head was hanging over the armrest.

“Hmmm…” the great detective murmured noncommittally.

“Now all we need to know is when Toller leaves the house,” John continued.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied in a tone of utter boredom.

“So, what do we do next?” John asked. “Shouldn’t we, I dunno, watch the house or whatnot?”

“Stake-outs are dull,” Sherlock declared.

“But necessary,” John pointed out.

“It still doesn’t mean _we_ have to do it,” Sherlock said. “Don’t get all excited, John, it’s been taken care of.”

John gave him an amused look. “What, have you taken your homeless network with you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not, John, don’t be ridiculous! But even in such a small village, there are always people who’re willing to provide small services… for the right price.”

“Let me guess,” John sighed. “Alcoholics or junkies?”

“Bored kids, actually,” Sherlock replied. “They were eager to play detective… especially as they’re getting paid for it.”

“When did you find the time to talk to any kids?” John asked, bewildered. “And how come I didn’t notice it?”

Sherlock raised an imperious eyebrow. “As I’ve repeatedly told you: you see but…”

“… but I don’t observe, yes, I know,” John interrupted. “So, _when_ did you hire the kids to spy on the house for you?”

“While you had your big, happy reunion with the charming Mr Rucastle,” Sherlock answered with a long-suffering sigh. “Now, stop being a pest and rest for a bit – you’ll need your strength tonight. We’ll get a call as soon as Toller leaves the house.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The phone call didn’t come until 7 o’clock. By then, Sherlock was prowling around in their room like a wounded tiger, snapping in the most irritable – not to mention rude – manner whenever John tried to start a conversation.

After a while the good doctor gave up the effort and immersed himself in the presentation copy of Jeff Rucastle’s book instead, which he’d been given on the previous evening.

With a _dedication_. He never received a book with a dedication before. Especially not from someone he respected. And he did respect Jeff Rucastle for his work, regardless what the man might have done in his private life.

Finally, shortly after 7 pm, Sherlock’s phone rang and he was told that Toller had arrived in _The Otter_ , where he was drinking heavily, while flirting with the dumb blonde barmaid like there was no tomorrow.

“Excellent!” Sherlock exclaimed, already reaching for his coat. “Come on, John! The game's afoot.” 

“God, I hope not,” John muttered, the word _game_ rousing unpleasant reminiscences of Moriarty and his cat-and-mouse tug of war with Sherlock that caused the deaths of innocents. Including that of a blind old woman. But he jogged after Sherlock dutifully – well, as much as his still aching leg allowed.

Neither of them noticed Sergeant Liu following them like a shadow.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Unlike during the previous occasions, this time Sherlock didn’t call a taxi. This was an investigation, after all, and he wanted to leave as little evidence as possible. So they walked all the way to _The Copper Beeches_ , much to John’s chagrin, whose bad leg started to act up seriously.

As a rule, he had no objections against a little physical activity; he had even teased Sherlock for his laziness on the previous evening. But there was _walking_ and there was trying to keep up with Sherlock who dashed forward on his long legs, with little to no regard for the fact that John wasn’t in top form right now. Hadn’t been since the incident of the pool, in fact. He could walk with moderate speed well enough, but _running_ was a different matter entirely.

So yeah, a taxi would have been mightily welcome. Hell, he’d even have welcomed one of Mycroft’s pretentious black cars. But life rarely gives one what one wishes for, and so John dutifully hobbled after Sherlock, wincing every time his sprained arm got jarred. Sherlock, of course, didn’t even take notice of his discomfort; not that he’d _expect_ it from the madman, but just this once it would have been nice.

They reached The Copper Beeches shortly after half past seven. The group of trees with their dark leaves shining like burnished metal in the light of the setting sun were sufficient to mark the house, even had they not been there before. Miss Hunter was standing on the doorstep, wringing her hands anxiously.

“Thank God you’re here,” she said, relieved. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“Where there's a will, there is a way,” John muttered darkly.

He was sweaty and red-faced due to the effort to keep up with the long-legged detective, his leg hurt and his arm felt like one big bruise. He hoped that military training would still make his hand steady enough, should he need to use his gun, but these weren’t ideal circumstances.

Sherlock ignored them both, of course, focusing single-mindedly on the task at his hands.

“Where’s Mrs Toller?” he asked.

“She’s gone to bed already,” Miss Hunter replied. “Her husband left for _The Otter_ , where he has that little tramp of a girlfriend younger than his daughter. Mr Rucastle and Miss Toller have gone to London as planned.”

“We know,” John said, still breathing heavily. “I saw them get on the bus. What about the dog, though?”

“Still in the kennel,” Miss Hunter assured them. “Toller is the only one who can let it out without endangering himself, and he never does so when he’s out of the house.”

“How long does he usually stay in _The Otter_?” Sherlock asked.

“Until midnight. Mr Rucastle insists that the dog be let out at one am, at the very latest.”

“We have about four hours then; probably even less,” Sherlock said. “That should be more than enough. Now, lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this sorry affair.”

It turned out that Miss Hunter had managed to lift Mrs Toller’s keys – quite a feat, under the eagle eyes of the formidable housekeeper – and so they could go in at once. They passed up the stair, where she unlocked the door, and they followed her down a passage, which turned at a right angle at the farther end. 

Around this corner were three doors in a line, the first and the third of which were open. They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two windows in the one and one in the other, so thickly covered with dirt that the evening light barely shimmered through them.

The middle door was closed, and across the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at the other end with stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the key was not there.

“This barricaded door corresponds with the shuttered window outside,” Miss Hunter explained.

“I can see by the glimmer beneath it that the room is not completely dark, though,” Sherlock said. “Evidently, there is a skylight that lets in light from above.”

“There’s some sort of lantern in the front yard, right above the window,” John commented.

Sherlock gave him a quelling look. “Thank you, John for stating the obvious as always. I wonder what I would do without your stunning observation skills.”

Miss Hunter looked from one to the other in disapproval.

“I don’t know about you, sweetheart,” she said to John, “but if he treated _me_ like that, I’d have broken his nose a long time ago.”

John grinned at her. “And give him the satisfaction of having successfully provoked me? I don’t think so.”

She shrugged. “It’s your funeral, honey, though I don’t understand why you would play the doormat for him,” she dangled the keys before their nose. “Shall we give the door a try?”

Sherlock snatched the keys from her without a word. He cut the cord with the Jack-knife he always kept in one of his coat pockets, and removed the transverse bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came from within, and at the silence Sherlock’s face became very grim.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “If there were anyone held captive at all, they may be gone now.”

“Or worse: dead,” John added.

Sherlock nodded. “We need to check in either case. C’mon, John, help me break down the door!”

John made no attempt to do so.

“Hello: dislocated shoulder, remember?” he said instead. “Sprained arm, too.”

“But that was _weeks_ ago,” Sherlock protested in honest confusion.

John gave him a tolerant smile. “Old and battered ex-soldiers need longer to heal than you, Sherlock. I’m in no shape to break down the door, sorry.”

“But _I am_ ,” Miss Hunter offered; seeing their surprise she made an annoyed face. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not some fragile Victorian lady; _and_ I’m a head taller than him and not half as skinny as you are,” she glared at Sherlock. “What are we waiting for?”

After a moment of consideration Sherlock shrugged and they put their shoulders to work. The old, rickety door gave at once before their combined strength. Together they rushed into the room.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It was empty. There was no furniture save a comfortable sofa – the sort that could be pulled out to turn it into a bed – a chest of drawers and a fireplace. The skylight above was open and the prisoner gone… if there had been one in the first place.

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock said. “Not for a long time. Look at the fireplace: not only is it cold, it’s also empty, swept clean. There hasn’t been a fire made recently.”

Miss Hunter didn’t really listen to him. She was searching the chest of drawers instead.

“There are clothes here, lots of them,” she reported. “Expensive lingerie as was in fashion ten, fifteen years ago. And some jewellery; seems old but isn’t very tasteful.”

“Neither is it fake, though,” Sherlock took the gold necklace with the oval-shaped medal from her and examined it thoroughly through his magnifying lens. “It is eighteen-carat gold, according to the jeweller’s mark, and the diamonds are clear and unblemished.” 

He tested one of the small stones on the window plane; it cut the glass effortlessly. Then he turned the locket around and discovered the tiny initials MM engraved in the back in decorative copperplate letters.

“Look at this!”

“Melissa Moretti?” John guessed. “Could it have been hers?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied. “Her photographs that Miss Hunter found were clearly placed in the chest of drawer in _her_ room by mistake. I assume the two chests are identical,” he looked at Miss Hunter.

She nodded. “My guess is that this chest here used to be part of the furniture in what is my room now. It seems to be the same style. Does this mean that my room used to be the room of that Moretti woman?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock shrugged. “I can’t tell, not without a thorough investigation. But even if it had been, she was clearly moved here eventually.”

“Yeah, but where is she now?” John asked. “Cause she isn’t here; and as you’ve pointed out yourself, she hasn’t _been_ here for a while.”

“She might have fled,” Miss Hunter suggested. “Through the skylight, and down a long ladder on the other side.”

“Possibly but unlikely,” Sherlock said. “That would have had to happen months, even years ago, based on the state of this room. In that case she wouldn’t be considered missing by the Chicago Police, though, and Mr Fowler wouldn’t be sniffing around the house, watching _you_.”

“She must be dead, then,” John said grimly, and Sherlock nodded.

“That’s the most logical conclusion, yes; which raises several other questions. _How_ did she die? And where’s the body?”

“There are dozens of possible answers to the second question,” John said. “ _The Copper Beeches_ is surrounded by woods; nobody would be seen digging a grave there. She could be _anywhere_.”

Sherlock nodded again. “I’m afraid that’s quite right, John, I’m sorry. I know you’re a great admirer of Jeff Rucastle’s work and rightly so. His _work_ is excellent. His character, on the other hand…”

“I can’t imagine him killing that woman,” John said stubbornly.

Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps he didn’t kill her, not with his own hands. But if she couldn’t bear being caged like an animal and took her own life he’s still responsible for her death.”

“They must have loved each other once, though,” Miss Hunter said. “Look at this!”

She pushed the sides of the diamond-studded gold pendant together and it opened, revealing it to be a locket. Inside there were two small pictures: one of the mysterious Melissa Moretti and one of a much younger, carefree and even more handsome Jeff Rucastle.

“ _One_ of them might be infatuated,” Sherlock allowed. “Unless she thought to buy her freedom by marrying a very unsuitable man and letting him take all her money, in exchange for escaping her family.”

“And walked straight into another prison,” John looked around in dismay. “If she truly committed suicide, I can understand her. I wouldn’t want to live out my life in a place like this, either… though I almost did,” he added in a low voice that only Sherlock could hear. “That bed-sit of mine… it wasn’t much better than _this_.”

“See? You’re better off with me at Baker Street,” Sherlock replied; then he looked around in the empty room one last time. “Well, I don’t think we can find here any evidence. This room can’t tell us anything. Let’s hope that somebody in the house can.”

“Perhaps Mrs Toller will, now that we can catch her alone,” Miss Hunter suggested. “She seems the most burdened of all inhabitants of _The Copper Beeches_.”

“We’ll let John flirt with her,” Sherlock declared, as they left the room and went down the stairs. “No middle-aged woman can resist the infamous Watson charm.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
John was about to answer with something decidedly unfriendly when their banter was interrupted by the baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying sound which was dreadful to listen to. In the next moment, there were repeated gunshots, and then Mrs Toller came running, a dressing gown haphazardly pulled over her nightgown.

“My God!” she cried. “Somebody has loosed the dog! It’s not been fed for two days! Quick, quick, or it will be too late!”

John and Sherlock rushed out and rounded the side of the house, with Miss Hunter, who was clearly not easily frightened, hot on their heels. The sight that offered itself to them was not for the faint of heart.

There was the enigmatic Mr Fowler, writhing and screaming on the ground, the black muzzle of a mastiff of the size of a pony buried in his shoulder. The dog, too, was bleeding from several deep wounds in his flank, apparently caused by the service gun of Sergeant Liu, who had tried to keep the hungry beast from the injured man. 

She clearly wasn’t a crack shot, though, since she had missed the head of the dog – or any vital organs – repeatedly, only managing to make it all the madder with pain.

Running up to them, his leg pain forgotten and his hand steady as a rock, John blew the brains of the mastiff out with one well-aimed shot. It fell over, with its keen white teeth still firmly lodged in Fowler’s shoulder.

“Help me,” John said to Sherlock. “We must separate them and carry him into the house. I must do something to stop the bleeding. Miss Hunter, call the ambulance; the man needs a tetanus shot against blood poisoning, and I don’t carry such things on me usually.”

Miss Hunter controlled her visibly rising panic and ran back into the house, where she could use the landline in Mr Rucastle’s office. John, with Sherlock’s help – and with much effort – forced the jaws of the hound open and freed Mr Fowler. Then they carried the heavily bleeding man into the house, laid him onto the drawing-room sofa and John did what he could, using the meagre contents of Mrs Toller’s first-aid kit to stop him from bleeding out completely.

After having washed the wound with a salt water solution to irrigate as much dirt and bacteria as possible, he tried to stop the bleeding – with moderate success. Towels and the one clean bed-sheet Mrs Toller could find in a great hurry were no suitable ersatz for proper bandages.

“I just hope the paramedics will hurry up,” he muttered. “The dog's teeth have nicked an artery; my provisional pressure bandage won’t stem the bleeding for too long, and I’m running out of sterile gauze pads very quickly.”

Fortunately, the paramedics arrived in record time and took the still living but horribly mangled man to the A&E of the _Royal Hampshire County Hospital_ in Winchester.

“Will he live?” Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. “Perhaps. If he doesn’t bleed out on his way to the hospital, and if he can avoid blood poisoning later, then yeah, he does have a reasonably good chance. But even if he survives, his shoulder will never be the same. I’m fairly sure there’ll be some serious tendon and nerve damage, apart from the splintered bones.”

“He’ll learn to live with it,” Sherlock said dismissively. “ _You_ have.”

“’Cause I met you,” John replied. “But believe me, even so, it’s not a delight to have barely any feeling in my left shoulder… and sometimes even in my left arm. Why, do you think, I keep clenching and unclenching my hand all the time?”

“Sherlock frowned. “I thought that was a nervous habit.”

“It is… _now_ ,” John admitted. “But it started out with the urge to check if I can still feel my fingers at all.”

“I…” Sherlock looked away uncomfortably. “I never realised that.”

“Why should you?” John asked with a tolerant smile. “I was never relevant for the Work; why should it have shown up on your radar?” he turned to Liu. “I’d be more interested in the reason why _you_ are here, Sergeant.”

“Orders,” she replied simply. “Detective Inspector Gregson wanted me to shadow you, in case you’d need somebody to get you out of the clutches of the local police.”

“And how were you to do that?” Sherlock asked arrogantly.

“By arresting you,” Liu told him bluntly. “The Detective Inspector suspected that you’d try to break into the house or something equally stupid, and he thought you’d be better off in our custody than in theirs.”

John laughed. “He does have a point, you must admit, Sherlock.”

“But you didn’t break in!” Miss Hunter protested. “I’ve let you in voluntarily. With the _keys_.”

“Which you’ve lifted from Mrs Toller without asking,” John reminded her. “But let’s not discuss such minor details,” he turned back to Liu. “So, you followed us, I presume…”

Liu nodded.

“But how comes Mr Fowler into the picture?”

“I can only assume that he, in turn, followed me,” Liu said thoughtfully. “He must have the constitution of an elephant… or an unusually high resistance to drugs. He had four double whiskeys within half an hour; that, combined with the sedative that I slipped into his first drink, should have knocked him out till the morning,” she allowed herself a thin, cold smile. “He was not happy about my interference.”

“Did he let the hound loose on you?” John asked, understanding dawning.

Liu nodded again. “I must admit I was scared shitless. But for some reason the beast turned around and attacked _him_ , instead of me. I don’t understand why.”

“Simple,” Sherlock said. “The dog was obviously meant to keep Fowler from entering the house… or somebody like him. It was most likely trained to attack a certain type of man; or perhaps certain individuals, with the help of conserved scent samples.”

“That can be the case,” Liu allowed. “Oh, and by the way, I have reason to believe that Mr Fowler’s real name is Julian Luna.”

Sherlock raised his head like a hunting dog that had caught a scent. “What’s your reason to believe so?”

“Would a passport and a driver’s licence suffice?” Liu asked.

“Do you have them?” Sherlock demanded eagerly.

“I’ve got photographs,” she corrected. “Sent them to Detective Inspector Gregson at once; but you can see the copies later.”

“Why not now?” John asked, a bit disappointed.

“’Cause I think we should talk to Mrs Toller first,” Liu said. “She can probably tell us a great deal – if we manage to persuade her to speak, that is. And we shouldn’t let her alert Mr Rucastle, I think, or he might pull the chameleon act on us again.”


	12. The Confession of Mrs Toller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story. And yes, Mrs Toller is rather snobbish when it comes to Americans, too.  
> My heartfelt thanks to the most generous englishtutor for the beta reading and to my dear friend, Linda Hoyland, for the Brit-picking.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 12 – THE CONFESSION OF MRS TOLLER**

They found Mrs Toller, still wrapped in her dressing gown and shaking like a leaf, in the drawing-room, where Miss Hunter provided her with company and a cup of strong tea. The once regal bearing of the housekeeper was gone; if anything, she looked on the verge of a total breakdown and avoided their glances.

“Has she contacted anyone?” Sherlock asked Miss Hunter. “Her daughter, her husband, Jeff Rucastle?”

Miss Hunter shook her head. “She’s been sitting here like this all the time. _I called_ Toller and told him we were having problems with the dog and that he should come home and deal with it, but nothing else.”

“Good thinking,” Liu said. “Now, where’s there a phone that I could use? I still have no signal on mine.”

“You won’t have, not here,” Sherlock said. “I’ve looked up the problem while still in _The White Horse_. Apparently, there’s something on this particular spot that swallows both phone signals and WiFi. Presumably something in the rocks or the woods that surround the house; there’s no consensus about it. But I think this very fact was what inspired Mr Rucastle to buy the house.”

He looked at Miss Toller askance, and she nodded. “Yes; he didn’t want Miss Moretti to be able to contact her family in America – or anyone else outside the house, that is.”

“I think you should tell us everything, starting from the beginning,” Sherlock said. “I can deduce most of it, but for the others it would be better to hear the story in its entirety.

“Not before I’ve reported to Detective Inspector Gregson,” Liu declared. “He needs to have Mr Rucastle and Miss Toller collected and taken into custody before they can go into hiding.”

“My daughter has no reason to hide,” Mrs Toller protested indignantly. “She did nothing wrong!”

“A court might disagree with you about that,” Sherlock replied coolly. “But by all means, let us allow the sergeant to call her boss, so that he can do what he must.”

“There is a landline in Mr Rucastle’s office; I can show you where it is,” Miss Hunter offered, and Sergeant Liu went with her.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Detective Inspector Gregson sends his congratulations,” she said when she returned some twenty minutes later. “He’s also dispatched the team originally sent from London to take us, if necessary, to the hospital in Winchester and to this place, respectively. Our back-up is supposed to arrest Mr Toller, once he comes home… or do you want to tell me that your husband hasn’t done anything wrong, either?” she looked at Mrs Toller pointedly.

The housekeeper shook her head in defeat. “Clive got Mr Rucastle the dog, from a mate of his who breeds them professionally; and he was taking care of Carlo all the time. That’s not a crime, is it?”

“No," Liu said. “But holding somebody shut away in a house against their will is. Because I don’t think Miss Moretti spent the last years of her life here voluntarily… unless she’s still alive?’

Mrs Toller shook her head. “No, she isn’t. But we didn’t kill her, if that’s what you think; and neither did Mr Rucastle.”

“ _What_ I think is that you really should tell us everything from the beginning and allow us to draw our own conclusions,” Liu replied.

Mrs Toller insisted on making them all a coup of tea first, though, taking comfort from the familiar ritual of brewing and steeping the national beverage upon which the British Empire had once been built. In the meantime the corpse of the mastiff had been removed to the local vet’s and Liu told the constable who had come to investigate facts that, while true, by no means contained the _whole_ truth, and as a result they were then left alone.

“It will be filed away as a nosy paparazzo act gone terribly wrong, I think,” she said, after the constable had left.

For _one of those idiots from Scotland Yard_ , as Sherlock summarily called everyone involved with the police, she was mightily efficient, John thought. Even though she still gave him the creeps.

The necessary steps done, they gathered in the drawing-room again, where Mrs Toller served them tea and biscuits and finally, reluctantly, began to tell them the whole story.

“It all began when Tish went to the States for her gap year,” she explained. “She’s a good girl, she really is, and so bright and ambitious, but she has such bad luck when it comes to men. At first I was glad that she left for the overseas; it meant she no longer had contact with that teacher of hers on whom she had a terrible crash…”

“What teacher?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Oh, nobody of note; he demanded to be addressed as _Professor_ , but I don’t think he was really one. Why would he work as a sciences teacher in a state school otherwise?” Mrs Toller wrinkled her regal nose in distaste. “He was a very unpleasant chap; _and_ he was old enough to be Tish’s father. I never understood what she saw in him.”

“Young girls often develop hero worship for authority figures,” Liu said.

Mrs Toller nodded. “True. But that teacher should have been more responsible than encouraging her. He led on our little girl on for _years_ before we found out about it. Clive then had _words_ with him; _and_ we complained at the headmaster, which put an end to the affair. Tish, of course, was very angry with us.”

“Daughters of that age usually are when their parents interfere with their choices,” Liu commented. “ _Especially_ when those choices are stupid or dangerous – or both.”

“Unfortunately, that is true,” Mrs Toller sighed. “It was the reason why Tish went to the States, I think – to punish us. We were just glad she was separated from that horrible man. And she seemed to _like_ it there. She worked as a trainee for a small, independent magazine in Chicago; she wanted to become a journalist, you see.”

“Let me guess: that’s how she met Jeff Rucastle,” John said.

“Yes, doctor,” Mrs Toller nodded. “At first we were glad. We thought she would forget her teacher if she only met a really nice man. And Mr Rucastle – well, Mr Harper, as he was called back then – seemed _really_ nice. He was also dedicated to his work, or so Tish said. I don’t understand much about it, to be honest, but Tish admired him very much. She still does.”

“Plus, he wasn’t married yet, I presume,” Sherlock said.

Mrs Toller shook her head. “Not at that time, no. We were surprised when Tish returned after her gap year and went to study journalism in London; we had expected her to remain in Chicago. When we asked her about Mr Harper, she only said that he’d been great to work for, but she needed to go her own way now, and that was it. In her second year at university she then began to work for Mr Rucastle as her editor.”

“You had no idea yet that Mr Harper and Jeff Rucastle was the same person?” John asked.

“Not the faintest,” Mrs Toller confessed. “We never saw the man, after all. And Tish was doing so well at university, finishing her studies in record time and financing them on her own, even getting herself a small flat in London… We thought everything was all right, at last.”

“When did you begin to suspect that it wasn’t so?” Liu asked.

Mrs Toller sighed. “After she graduated. We expected her to start freelance work, to eventually get a job at some paper or a magazine, or at one of those book publishing firms… Her finals were so good, she’d have been accepted _anywhere_. Instead, she continued working for Jeff Rucastle, who eventually gained a great deal of fame as a war-zone reporter. A well-deserved one, they say, and I don’t doubt it. But he could never have done so without Tish running everything for him back home – and her own career went nowhere in the meantime. She was just his secretary.”

“Not exactly the career she had envisioned, I think,” Liu commented. “Or what _you_ would have wished for her.”

“No,” Mrs Toller agreed. “Of course, we didn’t know back then that the two had already worked out the strategy between them while Tish was still in the States.”

“When did you learn about the existence of Miss Moretti?” Sherlock asked.

“Not before we moved here, some six years ago,” Mrs Toller replied. “You see, Tish lived in London, still does most of the time – she hates it here. When we came to work for Mr Rucastle, we were at first very surprised to learn that he was married – had been for years, in fact. Miss Moretti – yes, she insisted to be addressed by her maiden name – lived in the rooms back there that are Miss Hunter’s now.”

“What was she like?” John inquired.

“Oh, she was very… American,” Mrs Toller replied with a faint expression of distaste upon her face. “Loud, demanding, often rude, always dissatisfied – and quite rich, I think. The house was registered under Mr Rucastle’s name and so were the accounts, but I understood soon enough that the actual money belonged to Miss Moretti.”

“Why would she allow Mr Rucastle to use it as he pleased, then?” John asked in surprise. That wasn’t what wealthy women nowadays usually did.

“We couldn’t ask her, of course,” Mrs Toller said. “But according to Tish, she had married Mr Rucastle in the first place to escape her family. Having the accounts under her own name would have led them right to her,” she shrugged. “She was of Italian origin and came from Chicago. It isn’t hard to guess _what_ sort of family that must have been.”

“No indeed,” Sherlock said. “So it never was an actual love affair between her and Mr Rucastle?”

The way his nose twitched in disgust when he said _love_ made it very hard for John to suppress his grin.

“Oh, she was fairly… passionate about Mr Rucastle,” Mrs Toller said delicately. “I think she thought she had bought him or whatnot, and that she therefore had exclusive rights where he was concerned.”

“Which was why she didn’t react well when she realized that Mr Rucastle and your daughter were romantically involved,” Liu said. “When did _that_ happen?”

“About four years ago. She threw a real fit when she found out, she did. She wanted Mr Rucastle to sign a paper – under his former name as Jack Harper – so that she would have the sole right to use her money, whether they remained married or not.”

“It’s only fair; it was _her_ money, after all,” John commented dryly. “But somehow I can’t imagine Jeff Rucastle meekly giving up the advantages of such help. After all, he financed many of his trips to the war zones from his own money… or rather from that of his wife, apparently.”

“That is only partially true,” Mrs Toller corrected. “He had invested that money cleverly and earned a great deal of interest by using it in the years of their marriage of convenience. So it wasn’t all just her money anymore, and Mr Rucastle told her so in no uncertain terms.”

“That must have gone down well with her, I imagine,” John said.

Mrs Toller missed the sarcasm completely. “Oh, no, sir, it certainly didn’t. She worked up herself into a terrible mood, threw things at Mr Rucastle and even tried to shoot him with his own pistol!”

“For which Mr Rucastle didn’t have a permit, according to police records,” Liu pulled a face. “Americans; they all have a much too relaxed attitude when it comes to weapons. Was it then that he decided to shut his wife into that foetid hole and throw away the keys?”

“Not right away,” Mrs Toller replied. “You see, Miss Moretti worked up herself so badly that she got brain fever and for six weeks was at death’s door.”

“Brain fever,” Sherlock repeated blandly. “Can you be any more unspecific?”

“In common usage it is applied to cerebral meningitis,” John supplied helpfully, “which is an inflammation of the membranes around the brain. Or to encephalitis lethargica, otherwise known as the von Economo disease. But the latter is rather unlikely, unless Miss Moretti had a serious autoimmune condition.”

“No, she hadn’t,” Miss Toller said. “It _was_ meningitis, or so my younger daughter Martha said. She was a medical student then, right before graduation.”

“Not an actual doctor, though,” John said grimly.

“No,” Mrs Toller admitted. “Which is why she asked one of her professors to examine Miss Moretti. She was then delivered to the hospital in Winchester under the name of Mrs Harper. There she got better at last, but her mind became unhinged due to her illness somewhat and Mr Rucastle had no other choice than to keep her locked in. She was dangerous and unpredictable, even though she was worn to a shadow of her formal self.”

“It still doesn’t explain how she died in the end,” Liu said.

“It was an accident, a terrible accident,” Mrs Toller assured her. “Despite her weakness, she was hell-bent on getting away…”

“Oh!” Sherlock said suddenly. “Of course. The skylight.”

Mrs Toller nodded. “Yes, that cursed skylight. One night – she had tricked us into believing that she had actually swallowed her medication while, in fact, she had spat it out – she piled the furniture up and climbed through the skylight. Unfortunately, she miscalculated the height of the roof; and it was also a rainy day. She slipped and fell and broke her neck. She was dead in the moment she hit the ground.”

“And where is she now?” Liu demanded. “In some anonymous grave in the woods?”

“Oh no, Mr Rucastle would never do that!” Mrs Toller protested indignantly. “She lies in the family crypt of the Huntingdons… the builders and previous owners of _The Copper Beeches_.”

“Has Mr Rucastle bought the crypt as well, together with the house?” Liu asked in surprise.

Mrs Toller shook her head. “No; but the family had all died out, and the keys remained in the house. Since there was still enough free space within, Mr Rucastle decided to lay his wife to rest there. Why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t as if he’d disturbed the grave of the Huntingdons or whatever.”

“But how did he manage to get the body over to the cemetery without anybody noticing it?” John asked.

“Oh, you can order all sorts of things online nowadays; including coffins,” Sherlock waved impatiently. “I assume Mr Toller helped his boss to smuggle the coffin into the crypt during the night, didn’t he?”

“He and our son, Leo,” Mrs Toller admitted. 

It sounded like a really bad horror movie, John found. There was one more thing that bothered him, though.

“And no-one has ever asked after her?”

“Well, no-one knew that she _was_ here in the first place,” Mrs Toller shrugged. “She was in the hospital under her married name, which she never actually used; and she never socialised with the people in Otterbourne in all the years that she spent here. In the rare cases she left the house at all, she went to London with Mr Rucastle.”

“But never alone?” Sherlock clarified.

“Never,” Mrs Toller assured him. “I believe she was deadly afraid that her family might find her.”

“And so was Mr Rucastle, I presume; only that he was afraid of what might happen if the family found him _without_ her,” Sherlock said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have brought Miss Hunter down here to play the role of his late wife. I doubt that the Morettis would have believed him that Melissa had died a natural death.”

Mrs Toller nodded. “As you say, sir, right as you say. Mr Rucastle asked Clive to get him a watchdog that would keep intruders away from the house, and Clive brought Carlo a year or so ago. Carlo is… _was_ … an attack hound, trained that he would listen to Clive and to him alone,” she gave them an anxious look. “What will happen with us now?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“That is for the judge to decide, of course,” Detective Inspector Gregson said two days later at New Scotland Yard. “On the one hand, Mr Rucastle was entitled to use his wife’s money – they were legally married, after all, even if it was only a Vegas wedding.”

“On the other hand, he did keep his wife imprisoned for years,” Liu pointed out.

Sherlock, invited – well, rather blackmailed – by Gregson to his meeting, shook his head.

“That’s not entirely correct. For the first three years, she remained inside _The Copper Beeches_ more or less voluntarily. He only shut her away after her illness, when she became delirious and aggressive.”

“And _that_ makes it right?” John, also invited to the meeting, mostly to serve as a buffer between Sherlock and the Yarders, asked incredulously. “He should have sought medical help for her. There are institutions where she could have received proper care, and they sure as hell had the means to pay for it. She could still be alive.”

“He could hardly afford to put him into an institution; those places have _records_ , accurate and extensive ones,” Gregson reminded him. “With the Morettis still looking for him – for both of them – that would have been extremely risky.”

“It still would have been the right thing to do,” John insisted, his disappointment in Jeff Rucastle obvious.

“Don’t make people into heroes, John,” Sherlock said, almost gently. “Heroes do not exist; and if they would, Jeff Rucastle would _not_ be one of them.”

“Perhaps not,” John answered slowly. “But he gave back us who were fighting on the front lines our hope and our self-respect, and for that he will always be _my_ hero,” he looked at Gregson. “What do you think, Detective Inspector? Will he have to go to prison?”

Gregson thought about it for a while… then he shrugged.

“No, I don’t think so. Whatever he did was perhaps morally questionable but we’d have a hard time to come up with any evidence against him. The Tollers won’t speak, if for no other reason then for the sake of their own safety, and no-one else was truly involved in the whole affair.”

“What about that Fowler bloke?” John asked.

“Julian Luna,” Gregson corrected. “He’ll have a long healing process before him, but in the end the only thing we can hold against him is the releasing of the mastiff on Sergeant Liu. Otherwise we’d have to let him go. He hasn’t done anything illegal… anything _else_ than carrying a weapon without a permit, that is; and he paid the price for his stupidity, I’d say.”

“You should let him go,” Sherlock suggested. "He’d return to the States as soon as he’s strong enough and never bother us again.”

“You can’t know _that_ ,” Liu protested.

“And can and I do,” Sherlock replied. “CAM News won’t want him back, now that he’s been compromised; and without a job to conceal his true intentions he wouldn’t be able to stay in England. Besides, I believe the Morettis would want him back. Which, in turn, would ensure their co-operation, at least for a while.”

“Most likely,” Gregson agreed. “He’s the right-hand man of Sandro Moretti, the current head of the clan and probably desperately needed at home,” he looked at Liu. “I’d say, Sergeant, we let him go. Let’s Cousin Thomas deal with him. We’ve got more than enough criminals of the home-grown sort to keep us busy. And this was never an official investigation anyway.”

Liu nodded in agreement. “I don’t think he really wanted to have me killed when he let the hound loose, sir. He just wanted to distract me to get away.”

“Good; then it’s settled,” Gregson said. He turned to Sherlock. “I’ll inform you about the decisions concerning Jeff Rucastle, Holmes; and when you should come in and sign the finished papers. Oh, and Cousin Thomas sends his regards and says you’re welcome to drop in whenever you happen to be in the States. He’d like to meet you in person.”

Sherlock was about to answer something potentially rude when John strategically kicked him in the shins. So he reconsidered and simply shot the detective inspector a hideously false smile.

“Well, we better get going,” John said hurriedly, as long as the peace lasted. “We’ve invited Miss Hunter for dinner to _Angelo’s_ , remember?”

And with that, he dragged the bewildered detective out of Gregson’s office and down the stairs.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“What do you mean we invited Miss Hunter to dinner?” Sherlock protested, already in the cab and heading homewards. “We did no such thing!”

“I did,” John replied simply. “And you’ll change into something less rumpled and behave like an adult for a change.”

“Why should I?” Sherlock sulked.

“Cause she brought us an interesting case while you were bored out of your head and thus spared me the necessity to shoot you out of sheer self-defence,” John told him. “We owe her for that.”

“We also saved her from _The Copper Beeches_ , so we are even,” Sherlock argued.

“Sherlock,” John said patiently. “She was never in any true danger at _The Copper Beeches_. The only endangered person there was Alex Fowler.”

“You mean Julian Luna,” Sherlock corrected.

“Whatever,” John waved off his objections. “I don’t think Jeff Rucastle would have harmed Miss Hunter. She would have played her small part in this melodrama and then let go when no longer needed.”

“You’re biased towards Rucastle,” Sherlock accused him.

“Perhaps I am,” John admitted. “He knew me while I still was what I was meant to be: a soldier and a battlefield trauma surgeon. What I can never be again. And that book he gave me, even if he never actually interviewed _me_ personally, represents the greater, most important part of my life. The part that I’ve lost forever; and yet it still exists, in a manner, in that book.”

“So you’re keeping the book?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded in emphasis. “You bet I am.”

“I thought you’d give it away, since Jeff Rucastle turned out _not_ to be quite the spotless hero you thought him to be,” Sherlock said.

John shrugged. “I won’t keep the book for him. I’ll keep it for the men and women featuring in it, many of whom are already dead. Too many of them. But at least they have a memento now, other than those identical headstones in a military graveyard. In fact, I’ll probably buy a copy for Major Sholto as a Christmas present.”

Sherlock stared at him in almost comical disbelief. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I am. Very serious,” the cab pulled up at 221 Baker Street at this very moment. “Come on, we still have the time for a quick shower, for checking your e-mails for possible new cases and for a cuppa before we’ll have to leave for _Angelo’s_.”

He was still speaking when Sherlock jumped out of the cab and bounded up the stairs, leaving John to pay the fee, which he did resignedly. Some things simply didn’t change, despite his feeble efforts. Life at Baker Street could be frustrating and insane and downright bizarre at times, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

He might have lost the close-knit camaraderie of the Army, not to mention two distinctive careers, but he had gained something he had never had before: a true friend and a home.

He made a mental note to tell Sherlock _that_ one day.

Catching up with his friend in their living room at last, John went straight into the kitchen to switch on the kettle.

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soledad Cartwright@5.04.2016


End file.
